


Choices and Consequences

by ANordDidIt



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Flashbacks, Inner conflicts, Minor Violence, Slow Burn, Spoilers, The Fade, a lot of headcanon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 04:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3277544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANordDidIt/pseuds/ANordDidIt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a prompt on the kink meme.</p><p>Right before Alyn Lavellan returns from future Redcliffe, Solas tells her who he really is.</p><p>Faced with the truth about the man she had found herself falling in love with, she must make difficult choices when it comes to herself, her beliefs, and the future of her people. Solas on the other hand must deal with the consequences of the actions made by his future self, and finds himself wondering why his future self had revealed their secrets in the first place.</p><p>ON HIATUS UNTIL WRITER'S BLOCK HAS GONE AWAY.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Choices

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the first thing I've written in years and I apologize for any mistakes. I may also have taken some liberties with the prompt, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway.

It was getting more and more difficult to stay awake. Once, Solas would have welcomed sleep with open arms, would have spent the hours exploring the world of dreamers and spirits, conversing with old friends he felt more of a kinship with than the people he met in the waking world. Now, there was nothing there when he slept. His friends – spirits of Wisdom, Purpose, Valor – had been corrupted when the Veil had torn the skies apart before it had vanished entirely. Those he had gotten to know and fought beside in the waking world had not fared much better, and all of it was the fault of the Elder One.

 _No_ , his foggy mind reminded him. He may not have been the one who destroyed the Veil, may not have been the one who caused the explosion at the Conclave, may not have been the one who massacred the people of Thedas, but the fault was still _his._

Despite the bloodshed he had seen and the losses he had mourned, the death that hurt him the most was the death of Alyn Lavellan.

 

They had called her _The Herald of Andraste_ , and she had despised it. She had resented how she'd been thrown into events she’d had no control over; had hated how she’d been forced to dress up to accommodate nobles who, before the mark had appeared on her hand, would have dismissed her as an _elf savage_.

She had refused to wear the new gear they had provided for her, had stared at the sturdy leather boots with such a peculiar look on her face it had nearly made Solas laugh. Instead she had remained clad in the same gear she had worn when she had left her clan all those months ago, much to Josephine’s dismay.

Despite her reluctance of accepting the title and the gear, however, she had not been ignorant to the larger threat that had loomed over them, and she had remained focused on the arduous task of stopping it. Of stopping his mistake, a fact she had not known.

“I’m not dressing up so that they can have an easier time accepting me,” she had scoffed one evening while they were both sat in front of the fireplace in his small cabin at Haven, having ended yet another debate about the history and lore of the elvhen.

It had been a nightly ritual for months; her visiting him, listening to his stories while writing them down in the overly fancy, leather-bound journal she had received from Josephine. The ambassador had apparently been so overjoyed that the Dalish elf had asked for something that she had sent for the journal from a ridiculously fancy shop in Val Royeaux.

 _“I will listen, and write, but I will not be passive,”_ the mage had told him when her visits had first begun, before she had taken a seat on the floor, opened the journal and looked at him expectantly. She had been headstrong and proud, and true to her word, listening had not meant that she was a passive participant. She poked and prodded at his information, trying to find flaws and questioning its validity, and eventually he found himself looking forward to her questions.

“You may not have a choice in the matter,” he had replied carefully. “The Inquisition is still in its infancy and will need all the help it can get. Playing by these nobles’ rules would make it easier to receive their support.”

That had earned him another scoff.

“The _Breach_ should be their biggest concern,” she had snapped, “not whether or not I choose to be something I’m not so that their fragile egos can have an easier time accepting that an _elf_ holds the key to closing it.” She had slammed her journal shut and placed it next to her before running a hand over her chin length dark-brown hair while staring into the fire. She had been angry; not at him, but at the events that had played out during their visit to Val Royeaux the previous day. “Besides,” she added, “everyone has a choice.”

“Choices are easy to make; living with the consequences of our decisions is the difficult part.”

He of all people would know what that felt like; the consequence of his latest ill-fated decision was in plain sight on Alyn’s hand, after all. Not that it would put an end to his plan. He still had a mission and would still go through with it once his orb was returned to him. His statement had made her gaze shift to him, and she stared at him so intensely it was as if she was trying to read his thoughts. She had done that often lately, especially since they had grown closer, and it made him wonder if she would one day see through his lies. He had returned her stare, a slightly eerie silence filling the air between them. Eventually he had cleared his throat and smiled.

“Whatever the nobles might think of you, they certainly cannot deny seeing your indomitable focus hard at work.”

She had snorted at that, a soft chuckle escaping her lips.

“I doubt they’d find the sight of it being dominated as fascinating as you would, Solas,” she had retorted before returning to stare at the fire with a smile on her lips.

The flirting had been a mistake. From the moment it had begun he had known it was a bad idea, but he had made no attempts at stopping it. Instead he had relished the way her cheeks had turned a soft shade of pink when it had first happened, had enjoyed the warmth that filled him when she had responded in kind. It had meant nothing of course; or so he had told himself as the comments and playful banters had continued over weeks that turned into months. It changed nothing, he had kept telling himself as he remained focused on his goal.

Then she had died, nothing remaining of her body but ashes, and he realised that she had changed _everything._

 

His chest still ached when he thought of her, even though it had been a year since her death, and knowing that it was his decisions that had caused it cut him the most. He had been a fool, in more ways than one, and now he lived with the consequences of all his decisions, the burden of what his pride had wrought lying heavy on his shoulders. He deserved the cage he was trapped in, deserved the red lyrium poisoning that slowly ate at his body and mind. Yet he could not help but stare down the prison guards who came to his cell once a day to check on the red lyrium’s progress, glaring at them through lyrium-foggy eyes while he stood tall and refused to let them see his suffering. Rebellious to the very end, as the Dread Wolf would be; once it had been his greatest pride, now it was his greatest folly.

When he heard the door to the prison open for the second time that day he knew that the end would come. He had long wondered if the Venatori would tire of waiting for the lyrium to kill him and end it themselves before harvesting the red crystals from his corpse. From what he had overheard them saying in the past, he was one of the last prisoners who remained alive, and the Elder One had little patience when it came to his precious red lyrium.

Standing with his back towards his cell door, he listened to their footsteps as they entered the room. He took a deep breath when he heard the door to his prison cell open, readying himself for the end, before he turned around, only to jerk back in shock. Alyn was standing before him, alive and well, her blue eyes looking at him with a deep concern he knew he did not deserve. Dorian, who they had all thought to have perished with Alyn a year earlier, was standing next to her. Solas blinked once, twice, before he accepted that they were no illusions.

“You’re alive? We saw you die!” His voice was dry and weak and he couldn't hide the way it cracked when he stared at the elven woman.

It was Dorian who answered him, explaining that Alexius’ time magic had moved them forward in time instead of killing them. Solas’ mind spun as it digested the information, working faster than it had in months. Displacement, not death; a second chance at saving the world from his folly.

“Can you reverse the process? You could return and obviate the events of the last year. It may not be too late!”

“That is the plan,” Dorian replied cheerfully, a smile on his face that did not reach his eyes.

The pair had already found Grand Enchanter Fiona, who in her dying breaths had urged them to find Leliana. Their next step was to locate Alexius and the amulet he had used to send them through time. Solas nodded while he listened, found renewed strength in this new piece of hope.

“You look… bad. Is there anything I can do to help?” It was the first time Alyn had spoken since they had arrived, and the worry in her voice nearly made him recoil in shame.

He did not deserve her concern, did not deserve her compassion, and before she returned to her time he would make sure that she agreed with his silent thoughts. There and then he made a new choice, and his past self would face the consequences. He met her gaze and felt his heart squeeze at the sight of her. She was alive.

“I am dying, vhenan, but no matter. If I can help you return, to prevent any of this from happening, then my life is yours. This world is an abomination; it must never come to pass.”

His term of endearment made her eyes widen slightly, but she said nothing, and when she looked at him he still saw worry in her features. They found him a staff in one of the empty prison cells, and while they walked he tried to give them as much information as possible to bring back to their time; anything that would help them gain an advantage over the Elder One.

 

It did not take them long to find Blackwall, who was cowering in another cell. Worse off than Solas, it took Alyn and Dorian a lot of coaxing to convince the burly Grey Warden that they were real and very much alive. After having rescued Leliana, who had suffered through months of torture and wanted nothing more than revenge, they moved on to the throne room where Alexius had been hiding for months. They found it barricaded by a door infused with unknown magic. While Dorian busied himself with examining it, trying to figure out how to breach it, Solas found his chance to warn Alyn. He walked up to her, brushed a hand over her elbow, and moved his mouth to her ear.

“May I have a word?”

She turned her head and looked at him, concern still etched around her eyes, before she gave him a subtle nod. He led her away from the others until he was certain that they were out of earshot. There was not enough time to tell her everything, but if Dorian’s plan to return them to the past succeeded, Solas would make sure that his past self would be forced to talk. Placing his hands on Alyn’s shoulders, he leaned his head closer to hers and spoke in hushed whispers.

“My past self, the Solas you will meet in the throne room when you return through the time rift. Do not trust him, vhenan.”

She frowned, brows creased in confusion. From the look in her eyes he could see that she was taking his words in but was having a difficult time comprehending what she was hearing.

“I don’t understand. Why-?”

“I would tell you everything if I knew we had the time. I would not place this burden on you unless I had any other choice. Make _him_ tell you the truth.”

She still looked confused, blue eyes searching his face. Then, finally, she nodded and her eyes hardened into determination.

“How?”

Before he could give her the information she needed, Dorian let out a triumphant cry and turned to look at them with a smile on his face.

“I believe I’ve figured out how to open this door.”

 

They had to move on, fight through guards, mages, and demons while they searched for the lyrium shards needed to unlock the door. Each corridor they entered was more horrifying than the last, with red lyrium jutting out from the walls like haunting sculptures. Solas paid it no mind. All he could think of was how he needed to find the opportunity to continue his conversation with Alyn. Truthfully he could have just shouted it for all of them to hear; Leliana, Blackwall, and he would remain in this world after all. But Dorian would not, and Solas would rather have him not knowing. For now, this was for Alyn’s ears alone. What she did with that knowledge later was for her to decide.

Time, it turned out, was yanked from under their feet. After they had finally managed to open the door and killed Alexius the ground shook, and Solas knew that the Elder One had noticed them; had noticed _her._ Unless she left now, all would be lost, and Solas could not, would not, allow that to happen. Looking at Blackwall and Leliana, he knew that they had come to the same conclusion, and a silent decision was made. He would defend the outer doors with Blackwall in order to give Dorian time to cast his spell. Leliana would remain in the throne room; the last line of defence.

Alyn protested angrily upon hearing their plan, letting them know that she would not let them sacrifice themselves. She shot Solas a pleading glance. He could only shake his head in reply; that decision was not hers to make. He would, however, not let her leave without the information she needed. He placed a hand on her shoulder, moved her away from the others, and this time he spoke more hurriedly.

“Ask him- ask _me_ about the orb and what I plan to do with it. Ask about Corypheus. I will deny everything, come up with a lie. However, mention my other name and I will not be able to remain quiet.”

Her hands were on his arms, gripping them tightly, and guilt gnawed at him as he knew that he had allowed for this to happen. Instead of distancing himself, he had let himself develop feelings for her, and it was clear that she held the same feelings for him. His only comfort was knowing that hers would dissipate as soon as she knew who he was, knew what he had done, and what his past self was still planning on doing. He hoped she would distance herself from him after everything had been revealed.

“Other name?” she whispered, her words barely heard over the hordes of demons outside that were slowly approaching the grand hall.

He was a selfish fool, and she would hate him, but even so he could not help himself. He pressed his lips against hers, kissing her with the final desperation of a dead man. She was quick to respond, parted her lips for him and allowed him to taste her, and he knew that he did not deserve any of it. He broke the kiss too soon, felt his heart pound faster and faster as he moved his lips to her ear. Then he whispered the name he had not used in years; the name her people reviled. He felt her tense up under his touch, felt her hands grip his arms tighter, and he pulled back to look at her and face her reaction. There was no hatred in her eyes, no fear, but she had turned significantly paler.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked, her voice strained.

He gave her a weak smile before he released himself from her grip and backed away.

“Everyone has a choice.”

The demons were getting closer, their screams and screeches echoing against the walls. Solas gave Blackwall a nod before they both walked out of the door. He heard Alyn call after him as it shut behind him, but he ignored it as he set all his emotions aside and stared at the swarm ahead. It was too late to change all of the mistakes he had made in his lifetime, but Alyn could stop him from his past self’s latest plan. He was ready to die knowing that he had, for once, made the right decision. With a cold glare at the demons ahead, he cast a barrier over himself and Blackwall, and then he unleashed his rage onto the abomination of a world that his pride had wrought.


	2. Doubts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos, the lovely comments and the bookmarks <3  
> Had a bit of a difficult time writing this chapter, but I hope it is to your liking.

Alyn was exhausted. In the past four days she had gotten no more than five hours of sleep, and she knew from the way her advisors had looked at her during their morning meeting that it was beginning to show. Not that any of them had said anything. She had hidden her bouts of foggy dizziness and nausea as best she could, masking it behind a stone-faced expression. Leliana, Cullen, and Josephine did not know her well enough to know that it was just a mask her friends back in her clan jokingly referred to as her _Keeper face_  – an expression rarely used in their company. To her advisors it was the only expression they knew, as she always wore it during their meetings, and she quietly hoped that they would not pay closer attention to the cracks that were starting to form.

Concealing her exhaustion from her companions was another matter entirely; especially since they had gotten to know her well enough to notice when something was amiss. Having fought and travelled beside her for months, they had quickly learned two things about her; she could fall asleep in the matter of minutes if she allowed it, and once she was asleep it was almost impossible to wake her. Now, as they prepared to complete some final tasks in the Hinterlands before the rest of the rebel mages arrived to Haven, she feared that her companions would notice her lack of sleep. If they noticed, questions would be asked; questions she did not want to answer, since the reason for her recent insomnia would be accompanying them. It was a decision of her own making. Solas had always been at her side during their travels, and not bringing him along would seem suspicious. He was, of course, oblivious to the role he played in her current worries, but she knew that he would show concern like the rest of them, only it would not be honest concern.

 _Not Solas_ , she reminded herself while she walked to the gates of Haven where he, Cassandra, and Dorian were waiting for her. _Fen’Harel_. The name that had been whispered in her ear after a kiss that still lingered on her lips. _Do not trust him, vhenan_. His desperate warning from the future still rang clearly in her thoughts, and the giant lump of anxiety in her stomach had remained since she had left Redcliffe.

 

After they had returned from the future, and were back at Haven, she had taken Dorian aside and asked him to keep quiet about the kiss. The Tevinter mage had made the promise with a smile and a wink.

“Ah, the thrill of a complicated relationship,” he had sighed wistfully before walking off to the tavern, leaving her feeling so dizzy that she was forced to sit down.

_A complicated relationship with the Dread Wolf; every Dalish girl’s dream._

She had still not believed it back then, had not wanted to believe. It was absurd, she had told herself while fighting through the dizziness; absurd to believe that the Dread Wolf, the Bringer of Nightmares, the Great Betrayer and Lord of Tricksters hid in her inner circle, and that it was _Solas,_ the man she had found herself falling for.

It had been unbelievable, but his future self had known what she and her people thought of Fen’Harel. He had known the stories she had grown up hearing, and would have known that she would not take his confession lightly.

Even so, she had found herself trying to think of excuses not to believe it, each of them becoming more and more ridiculous the further she went; he was affected by the red lyrium, he was obviously not himself, he had been possessed and did not know what he was saying. In a final desperate attempt to dismiss it completely, she had made herself calm down enough to seek out the man in question.

She had avoided Solas during their journey back to Haven, and as she walked over to him, her heart beat faster and faster. She had found him in his usual spot outside his cabin, arms crossed over his chest while he looked out over the village. When he noticed her, his usual cool gaze warmed up; the corners of steel blue eyes crinkling as he smiled one of the rare smiles he never seemed to give to anyone but her. _Do not trust him, vhenan_.

He had congratulated her on the new alliance with the mages, and even though he expressed some disbelief that she had truly journeyed into the future, he’d had no interest in hearing of his own part in it. In hindsight, she wasn’t sure why she had been at all surprised by that. _Make_ him _tell you the truth,_ had echoed in her mind, and the lump in her stomach grew heavier when she broached the subject carefully; like a hunter scouting ahead on very light steps.

“Solas, in your journeys in the Fade, have you ever heard of the name Corypheus?”

Anyone who had not spent enough time with him would have missed the quick tension in his jaw. It appeared and disappeared in a heartbeat, but she had caught it, and her heart squeezed so painfully she feared she would black out. She did not want to believe, did not want to know, but her mind was screaming. She knew that his – carefully chosen – answer would be a lie.

“No, I cannot say it is a name I have come across in my travels. Might I ask where you discovered it?”

Fen’Harel the Dread Wolf, Bringer of Nightmares, Lord of Tricksters, and the Great Betrayer was in her inner circle, having tricked them all. Her gaze had travelled down his cream coloured woollen tunic before resting on the amulet she came to realise was the jawbone of a wolf. She had been a fool.

“It was written in a journal I found. It’s an unusual name so it caught my attention.” The lie had come easy to her lips, even as she struggled to look back into his eyes and keep her voice steady; even as she could hear her blood rushing in her ears as every story of the Dread Wolf she had heard echoed in her mind. “It probably doesn’t mean anything.”

The silence that followed stretched on for several seconds, but his warm smile never left his lips, and his eyes never broke away from hers.

“I apologize for not having the answer you seek,” he finally said, “although if I am not mistaken, I believe it is Tevene. Perhaps Dorian can assist you further.”

She had forced a smile to her lips before she nodded.

“I’ll ask him. Thank you.”

She had not asked Dorian. Instead she had left Haven, had walked until the lump in her stomach had grown too large, until the anxiety made her chest ache too much, and until the dizziness in her head made her collapse on the ground. She had vomited on the snow, and had shaken so violently afterwards that her own body terrified her.

She had trusted him, had grown close to him, had developed feelings for him. Now she knew him for what he truly was; a liar, a deceiver, a trickster using them for some ulterior plan she had yet to figure out. Fen’Harel had given her the clues. He had wanted her to know, but she was not ready to find out. Not yet. Not while her heart still ached, draining the fight out of her. She was her Keeper’s First, tasked with protecting her clan from the Dread Wolf, but instead of returning to confront him as her duty demanded, she had remained a pathetic lump in the snow, hiding among the trees.

 

She had kept hiding after that day; avoiding him in the hopes that she would regain the strength she needed to face him. Fen’Harel had wanted her to confront him, but she did not know if Solas would remain his calm, cool, and collected self once he found out that she knew the truth. Fen’Harel had been weakened by the red lyrium, and she did not know the true extent of Solas’ power.

She stopped visiting his cabin every evening. If he had worried or suspected, or had even missed her company – something part of her pathetically hoped he had – he had not sought her out. _This is the right thing to do_ , she had thought one evening while flipping through the pages of her journal, reading the words with different eyes now that she knew they were the words of the greatest traitor of her people. _It is nothing more than a girlish crush. I will move on from it_ , she told herself while avoiding the area where his cabin was altogether.

She had never been very good at lying to herself.

Every day that passed she told herself that he did not care, that he was using her, that he was a traitor, a liar, a deceiver, and that she needed to harden her heart and treat him as such. Then a small voice always whispered in the back of her mind, reminding her that, in another world, a year from now, he had called her _vhenan,_ had kissed her with a desperate passion that spoke of his feelings for her. Perhaps the stories of him were something her people had gotten wrong as well, the pathetic voice said; perhaps they were wrong. No. She dismissed his affectionate words and kiss as another part of his tricks, a ploy to make her really listen to his warning. _But why would he ruin his own plans?_

Her mind was a maze of swirling circles of thoughts and emotions, several internal arguments that were endless. It was finally too much. When she reached the steps leading down to the gates of Haven, her head spun, and she had to stop moving. Seeking the stability of one of the walls, she pressed a palm to her forehead, and closed her eyes while she tried to think of something else; _anything_ would be better than the confusing mess that currently occupied her thoughts.

“Are you not feeling well, Alyn?”

It was the first time she had heard his calm baritone voice in days, and her eyes snapped open. He was standing in front of her, brows creased as he looked her over, and she realised that avoiding him had done nothing to cool her feelings for him. While part of her wanted to believe that his concern was real, another part felt a deep resentment towards him; instinctual emotions that had been planted in her since childhood. She quickly dropped her hand from her forehead and managed to force a smile to her lips.

“I’m feeling great. Let’s go.”

Cassandra approached them, her eyes inspecting her intently, and Alyn groaned inwardly. This was not what she needed right now.

“You do look a little pale, Herald,” the Seeker said. “Perhaps it would be wiser to postpone our journey and let you rest.”

“Really, Cassandra, I’m fine,” Alyn replied before she attempted to escape.

Solas’ hand on her shoulder stopped her in her tracks. It was the first time he had touched her since her journey to the future, and she tensed up.

“Do not overexert yourself, Alyn,” he murmured gently, the words meant for her ears alone. “No one would fault you for needing to rest.”

_Fen’Harel, who betrayed the gods, who hates the People, who tricks and deceives._

“Creators have mercy, I am fine!” she snapped, so loudly it caused a few of the soldiers and refugees standing by the gates to turn and look at them.

Without looking up at Solas, she shrugged his hand off her shoulders and ran to Dorian who was waiting for them on the other side of the open gates.

“Let’s go.”

 

She could feel Solas’ eyes on her back during their journey to the Hinterlands. She hid her bouts of dizziness by using her staff as a walking stick, and masked her fatigue and anxiety by chatting and laughing with Dorian. The fellow mage was new to their group and did not know her well enough to suspect that something was wrong. She found comfort in it, and the stories he told her of his life in the Tevinter Imperium were a welcome distraction.

After making a quick stop to pick up status reports in the Crossroads they moved on to the farmlands where Horse Master Dennet, their final stop, lived. They ran into trouble shortly after they had entered Witchwood. A small group of bandits ambushed them, and she immediately felt Solas’ protective barrier enveloping her before she opened herself up to the Fade.

Where her magic had previously been a fierce and fluid motion – the Fade answering her call while tiny wisps flocked to her, like moths to a flame, before manifesting into a spell – it was now jagged and halting. It felt like she was ripping the Fade slowly, piece by piece like fragile parchment, before stitching it together into a spell that felt wrong. The shock of lightning she threw at the bandits did little damage, and she nearly laughed in frustration. _Of course_ her fatigue had begun to affect her magic; why was she even surprised? As if that was not bad enough, she knew that Solas would have noticed the change in her magic as well. They had fought side by side long enough to get used to the feeling of each other’s magic, and there was no doubt in her mind that he had felt the difference in her from the moment she had opened herself up to the Fade.

The Dread Wolf hid in her inner circle, and now he knew she was weak.

Outwardly, she refused to show how shaken up she was by the discovery of her weakened abilities. She kept casting spells as if nothing had changed, and after a long and draining fight, their enemies finally lay dead on the ground. She grabbed a bottle of lyrium from her travel pack before she drank from it greedily, trying to regain what little of her strength that remained. She refused to let her weakness show; especially not when she could still feel Solas’ eyes on her back.

Dorian came to her rescue, even if he was unaware of it. Discounting their journey to the future, it was the first time he had fought alongside Solas, and he immediately began asking questions about staff techniques.

“That little flare you sometimes do with your staff… you’re redirecting ambient energy to your personal aura?”

“Yes,” she heard Solas reply, and finally – _thank the Creators_ ­– she felt his eyes leave her. “The effect clears magical energy and creates a minor randomized barrier to impair incoming magic.”

She finished off the lyrium bottle, returned the empty vial to her pack, and looked up to see Cassandra next to her. The Seeker had finished cleaning off her sword and was observing the men with a deep scowl in her features. She knew that Cassandra had been wary of Dorian from the start, and half expected her to make a disgusted noise at their topic of conversation. She most likely refrained from doing so because Alyn had allowed him to join the Inquisition, having made it clear to everyone that she would have been stuck in that dark future at Redcliffe were it not for Dorian’s knowledge and skills.

“Fascinating. It’s a Tevinter technique. I’ve never seen anyone in this part of the world do it.” Dorian’s voice was a mix of enthusiasm and homesickness, and Alyn felt a twinge of sympathy for the man. She had never missed her clan more than she did at this moment.

“The technique is not Tevinter. It is elven.” Solas’ response was cool and accusing, like a whip cracking in the air. It was as if he was making Dorian personally responsible for the fall of Arlathan, and something in Alyn snapped.

She crossed her arms over her chest and spun around so quickly it made both men look at her. She looked at a slightly embarrassed looking Dorian, before turning her gaze to Solas, looking at him for the first time since they had left Haven.

“How do you know?”

His eyes widened slightly at the biting tone in her voice, but he showed no other signs that would indicate that her question had caught him off-guard.

“I have seen countless such displays in my journeys in the Fade.”

_Of course you have._

“You saw ancient elven staff techniques in the Fade?” she asked slowly, each word dripping with scepticism.

A small crease appeared on his forehead, a minor sign of annoyance, and voices screamed at her in the back of her mind. _You’re arguing with the Dread Wolf! Are you insane?_ After four days of being unable to sleep, of questioning everything he did, of being pushed and pulled between hundreds of different thoughts and emotions, each one more painful, confusing, and angry as the next, she would not be surprised if she finally did lose her sanity.

“Is that so surprising? There is a trove of knowledge in the ancient memories for those who know how to look for it.”

“How do you know that the memories were from the time of Elvhenan?” she quickly shot back. “They could be memories from the Dales. The technique could have been brought with them when they left the Imperium. How would you know the difference?” _Unless you were actually_ there _to know the difference_ , followed silently.

She kept pushing against him, ignoring the screams in her mind, the nausea and the anxiety, the dizziness and fatigue, the pain in her heart, and the anger in her veins; hiding it behind layers of masks on her face.

The tension between them could be cut through with a knife, something that had most likely not gone unnoticed by their human companions. Then Solas smiled. He leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped around his staff, and his features etched into the usual expression he wore when she prodded him with questions.

“Those are excellent questions. However, should your theory be correct, it is a shame to see that another piece of knowledge has been lost by the Dalish. I do not see you using the technique, after all.”

 _Fenedhis lasa_. She grit her teeth to stop herself from saying something she would regret, before she turned and walked away.

Still seething when they crossed the broken bridge leading to the farmlands half an hour later, her inner turmoil had reached a near boiling point. When a bear attacked them a moment later, she let out her frustrations the only way she could think of. Slamming her staff into the ground in the final moments of the fight, she flung a fireball at the animal.

“May the Dread Wolf take you!” she shouted heatedly as the fire caught its fur, causing enough damage to kill it.

She felt Solas’ magic falter at her curse, and when they moved on afterwards she had to bite her lip to keep herself from laughing like a maniac.

_Smooth, Alyn. Very smooth…_

They returned to Haven at dusk, and found the small village nearly filled to the brim with all the newly arrived mages. After a long meeting with Cassandra, Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana, it was decided that they would perform their second attempt at closing the Breach the following day. After leaving the Chantry she decided to skip dinner at the tavern, and instead she pushed through the crowds, ignoring the whispers of _“That’s the Herald of Andraste”_ , to reach the safety of her cabin. She needed rest, needed to clear her head, needed _sleep,_ but she knew that none would come to her, and that she would most likely spend another sleepless night twisting and turning while her thoughts ate away at her.

She had barely closed the door to her cabin when someone knocked on it, and she opened it with a weary sigh, freezing slightly when she saw Solas. He had changed out of his travel gear, and wore his usual cream coloured tunic and moss green leggings, hands clasped behind his back, and eyes focused solely on her.

_Fen’Harel, not Solas. Fen’Harel, who betrayed the gods, who hates the People, who is said to feast on the souls of the dead._

“May I come in?” he asked, his voice barely heard over the crowd of people behind him.

She knew that she should say no, knew that she should distance herself from him. But she was too exhausted to argue with herself; too tired to decide between what she should do, and what she wanted to do. _Mythal protect me_ , she thought before she stepped aside to let him in.

_Fen’Harel, the Bringer of Nightmares, Lord of Tricksters. Fen’Harel the traitor, the monster. Fen’Harel the Dread Wolf._

She closed the door behind him, drowning out the noise from the crowd outside, and remained there. He stopped in front of the fireplace and stared into the fire with a contemplative look in his eyes. For a long while there was nothing but silence, and it was not until she took a cautious step forward that he spoke.

“I understand how difficult it can be when so many lives rely on you,” he said distantly, seemingly lost in his own memories, “and how it is far too easy to put the wellbeing of others above your own.”

He suddenly broke out of his reverie, his gaze snapping away from the flames and moving to look at her. The unreadable intensity in his steel-blue eyes nearly made her flinch.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked, repeating the same question she had asked him a year into the future.

“Because I am worried about you,” he replied quietly, the intensity in his eyes softening as genuine worry poured through.

_Fen’Harel who kissed you, who called you vhenan, who sacrificed himself so that you and Dorian could return._

He held out his hand, revealing a small glass vial filled with a dark blue liquid resting in his palm, and she hesitantly took it from him before she held it up in front of her eyes.

“I had Adan make it after we returned. It will help you sleep.” His words made her stare at him, and she noticed a small smile on his lips. “I have suffered through enough periods of insomnia to recognize the symptoms in someone else. Do not let the troubles of this world overwhelm you, Alyn.”

He moved towards the door, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze when he walked past her, and she returned her gaze to the vial while her mind raced.

_Solas, whose eyes light up whenever he speaks of the Fade. Solas, who provided comforting words to a widow after we returned her dead husband’s stolen wedding band. Solas, who helped convince an elven healer to help the refugees in the Crossroads. Solas, who expressed his respect and admiration of Cassandra and her strength, her faith, and her willingness to do what needs to be done. Solas, who values freedom of thought above all. Solas, who has been the most adamant about the need to close the Breach, stating over and over again that we are all doomed as long as it remains open. Solas, not Fen’Harel._

_Just pretend_ , she thought, closing her eyes briefly and taking a deep breath. _Just pretend for one evening._

“Solas.” Her voice was shaking, and she cleared her throat before she turned to look at him. “Do you have any more stories to share about our ancestors?”

She sat down on the floor in front of the fire and patted the empty space next to her. He gave her another smile before he slowly walked over and sat down.

“Is there a topic in particular that would interest you?”

“Surprise me,” she replied, feeling a smile coming easy to her lips when she heard him chuckle. _Solas, not the Dread Wolf._

For a while, the snapping of firewood was the only sound heard in the room as Solas seemed to contemplate what to tell her. Then he began to speak. It took her a few seconds of struggling to understand what he was saying before she realised that he was speaking elven. The language rolled off his tongue in soft and fluid motions, beautiful even when she struggled to pick out words that she might understand. Then she recalled him telling Sera once, that even though an elf did not understand their ancient tongue, it was said that they could still feel the rhythm and emotion in the language. Sera had mocked him for it, but now Alyn found herself closing her eyes while she focused on his voice, relaxing as she listened to his words without trying to translate them. The emotions weaved together as the tale unravelled, each of them a different coloured strip of fluid fabric. Hopelessness, pain, and sorrow weaved in with hope, joy, and love; confidence and inspiration weaved in with loss and determination. Finally, there was betrayal, an unending pool of sorrow and pain, of emptiness and loneliness, but beneath it all she still felt hope, unfaltering, and unwavering.

When the room once again turned silent she kept her eyes closed for a while longer, still lingering on the emotions she had felt.

“What was the story about?” she whispered, afraid of losing the remaining traces of it if she spoke any louder.

“Fen’Harel’s rebellion,” he replied after another moment of silence. The strange thickness in his voice made her open her eyes.

He was staring into the fire, once again seemingly lost in his own memories, and there was no mistaking the raw pain and sorrow in his eyes. She focused on the sorrow she had felt, and wondered if it was his own. How much of the story was true? Who would a god feel the need to rebel against? The answer was whispered in thoughts skirting the edge of her mind, but she pushed them away and kept focusing on the emotions of the story. Then she made her decision.

 _Tomorrow,_ she thought while they remained seated in silence. _Tomorrow after we’ve closed the Breach._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So did some minor head canoning to the "feeling emotion of the language". Truthfully, Solas tells Sera that elves can sometime feel the rhythm of it, but yeah. Space elf magic?


	3. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a slow start but I hope you enjoy it anyway. 
> 
> As always, I thank you for your lovely comments, kudos & bookmarks. :)

They closed the Breach at sundown. With the help of the rebel mages, the Inquisition had succeeded in their immediate goal, and everyone in Haven exhaled the breath they had been holding from the moment the Breach had appeared in the sky. When Alyn returned to the village, Cassandra, Solas, and a dozen Senior Enchanters in tow, the celebrations had already begun. Cassandra requested Solas’ assistance to confirm that the Breach had been fully closed, and moments later Alyn watched in dismay as he followed the Seeker up to the Chantry. She had wanted to confront him as soon as possible, but would now be forced to wait. Looking after them until they disappeared into the crowds, she decided to steer away from the celebrations and go wait in the Chantry.

The Iron Bull caught her on the way, literally. The qunari hefted her up to sit on his shoulder, ignoring the surprised yelp coming from her.

“Where are you going, Boss? We’re celebrating!” Iron Bull shouted before he began to walk.

She felt herself sliding off his shoulder and grabbed on to one of his horns in a moment of panic. Suddenly she was very grateful for the sleeping draught Solas had given her the previous evening, since she would most likely have been overcome by dizziness and nausea otherwise. The potion had allowed her to fall into a nice, dreamless sleep, and she had not woken up until late in the afternoon, having overslept by several hours since they were supposed to have left to close the Breach by midday. She suspected that Solas had urged Cassandra to let her sleep in. She was grateful for the gesture, even if she was not sure of anything when it came to him, and her anxiety over it all still lingered.

“Let me down, Bull, I have things I need to do!” she protested while she looked down at the ground, only to see Varric laughing at her.  

“You need to work on that ‘too serious for your own good’ – attitude, Sleepy!” he yelled up at her.

“And _you_ need to work on your nicknames, Varric!” she retorted and was unable to contain a smile at the absurdity of the situation.

“Aw, you wound me, Alyn,” Varric laughed.

Bull had ignored her protests and kept on walking in the direction of the tavern, and Varric moved to walk behind the qunari as they pushed through the crowds.

They passed by mages, templars, soldiers, scouts, and refugees, all of them cheering at the sight of her. Most of them were already inhibited as it seemed that they had begun the celebrations as soon as they had seen the Breach disappear from the sky. She had to admit that the joyous mood was contagious, and knew that it was only natural to want to forget about the months of fear, death, and conflict, if only for one evening. She knew, however, that she would need to seek out Solas before the evening was over, and she was uncertain of what the conversation would bring. Would he panic and lash out at having been caught, or would he come up with more excuses and lies? She would be lying if she said that she was not nervous about the confrontation that waited, but she had made up her mind. She knew that she would be unable to play along with his deception without driving herself insane in the process. For now, however, she would try to relax and enjoy the moment, where nothing mattered but the celebration of their victory.

Bull finally let her down when they reached the overcrowded tavern, and then he whistled loudly to get the attention of the patrons.

“The saviour of the day!” he shouted, and the cheers and whistles coming from inside were almost ear deafening.

The crowds parted for them when they walked in, a table was cleared for her and her companions, and she sat down. Varric took a seat in front of her, and then Dorian appeared, a glass of wine in his hand, and sat down next to Varric. Bull went in the direction of the bar, his form towering over the other patrons. She could hear Sera laughing somewhere, but the elf was nowhere to be seen in the crowd, and the saw Blackwall seated in a corner, engaged in a loud and cheerful discussion with two Inquisition scouts.

Bull returned a few moments later, making her jump in surprise when he slammed a tankard filled with something down in front of her.

“Maraas-Lok!” he shouted excitedly.

She stared down at the dark liquid with no small amount of scepticism before she looked up at the qunari.

“What exactly am I drinking?”

He looked almost offended at her question.

“Less questioning, more drinking,” was his reply.

She sniffed the liquid, felt her nose scrunch up at the strong, bitter smell, before she pinched it, raised the tankard to her lips and took a sip. The brew burned in her throat, the bitterness settling on her tongue making her face contort in disgust, much to her companions’ amusement.

“What _is_ this?” she managed to choke out, looking down at the vile liquid as if it had offended her.

When she received no answer, she looked up to discover that Bull had left them to join his Chargers.

“I suspect it’s something he smuggled in all the way from Par Vollen,” Dorian commented, taking a sip from his glass of wine before he placed it down on the table. “I hear the stuff the drink up there can make one’s innards burn.”

She slowly pushed the tankard away from her, causing Varric to laugh.

“Don’t scare her, Sparkles. I’m sure that whatever Tiny brought in from Par Vollen is safe to drink for us hornless people,” he said before he got the attention of one of the serving girls and ordered them more drinks.

“Safe perhaps, but not pleasant,” Alyn remarked. She could still taste the bitterness of the drink in her mouth, and in an attempt to remove it she stole Dorian’s glass of wine and gulped it down in one go. The Tevinter mage pretended to look offended at her theft and she gave him an innocent smile in return.

“Don’t pout, Dorian. I’m the Herald of Andraste and you should feel honoured that I’m stealing your wine.”

“You hate being called the Herald of Andraste, Freckles,” Varric pointed out.

“True, but bribe me with enough drinks and I might reconsider my stance,” she replied while she stared into the empty wineglass before she pointed it at him, “and I do not have nearly enough freckles on my face to earn that nickname, Varric.”

He shrugged.

“Your nickname is a work in progress. Though I gotta say, it was easier coming up with one for Daisy.”

“Daisy?”

“Daisy is Merrill. She was a Dalish elf who decided to move to Kirkwall’s alienage,” Varric explained. “Eventually she and Hawke became something of an item. She’s a sweet girl. Liked to frolic in Noble families’ private gardens, use chandeliers as swings. Didn’t really seem fazed by a lot of the weird shit that happened to us.” The serving girl returned with more wine for Alyn and Dorian, and a tankard of cider for Varric. He took a long sip from his drink before he continued. “’Oh look, it’s a rabid mabari trying to eat us, can we keep it, Hawke? Oh look, it’s a Pride demon chasing us around in the underbelly of the city, how exciting! Oh look, it’s a weird ass talking darkspawn claiming to be an ancient Tevinter Magister, how fascinating!’ Ah, I love that girl.”

Dorian almost spat out his wine before he stared at Varric in disbelief.

“Hold on, you met a talking darkspawn claiming to be an ancient Magister?” he asked.

Alyn leaned forward in her seat, drinking from her wine while waiting expectantly to hear Varric’s answer.

“Well, he wasn’t really making much sense when we met him,” the dwarf replied before he leaned back in his chair, his face breaking into the storyteller expression he always wore when he was telling his tales to people. “He’d been locked in a secret Grey Warden prison in the Vimmark Mountains since after the First Blight. Hawke’s father had been forced to do a blood magic ritual to strengthen the bindings of the prison a few decades ago, so Hawke’s blood was the key to unlocking those bindings. Apparently this darkspawn could mess with the minds of Grey Wardens because of their shared taint, and he managed to convince this crazy Warden lady and her equally crazy Warden friends that releasing him was the best idea ever. When Hawke was attacked in his home around six years ago, the leads I’d received from my contacts led to the prison. It turned out that once you entered, you couldn’t exit, so we were trapped. Anyway, long story short, after running around for a few hours, we met a Warden named Larius, who had also ended up getting trapped when he’d gone away on his Calling. He told us that the only way to leave the prison was to kill the Magister, so that’s what we did.”

“But he was an ancient Tevinter Magister?” she asked, repeating Dorian’s question with more fascination than disbelief.

“Like I said, he claimed to be. He looked like one of those darkspawn that can use magic, but he wasn’t making much sense. There was a lot of confusion, a lot of ‘Dumat! Dumat! Where are you, Dumat?’ followed by ‘I am Corypheus, feel my wrath puny beings!’ We killed him and went home. Being around Hawke sure was anything but dull.”

Alyn choked on her wine and had to cough for several seconds to clear her throat. Cold panic rushed up her spine and filled her head, causing her dizziness to return with a vengeance.

“His name was Corypheus?” she asked in a slightly strangled voice, and she emptied her glass of wine in an attempt to clear her throat.

“That’s what he said,” Varric replied with a shrug.

“It was probably a title, not his name,” Dorian pointed out. “Corypheus means Conductor in my language, although I can’t say I’ve ever heard of that title being used in my homeland. Come to think of it, I’ve never heard of any talking darkspawn either,” he added before he seemingly disappeared into his own thoughts.

Her mind raced. She had finally found a clue to who this Corypheus might be, but it only brought more questions than answers. If this darkspawn Magister had been dead for over half a decade, why had Fen’Harel mentioned him in the future?

“Are you certain he’s dead?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

Varric gave her a strange look and she smiled at him, masking the panic that steadily rose within her.

“Oh, he’s dead alright. After we were finished with him there was nothing left but a magic burnt, pin-cushioned mess. Broody even lyrium-fisted his remains a few times for good measure. Not that it was easy. Corypheus was a tough son of a bitch to kill, but Bianca made me very proud that day.”

 _It doesn’t make any sense_ , she thought. Had Fen’Harel known that Corypheus was dead when he had mentioned him to her? If he had not, then when had they met? As far as Varric knew, this supposed ancient darkspawn Magister had been imprisoned since the First Blight, though she couldn't exactly claim that she had an idea on how long Solas’ current plan had been in the making. He was immortal, after all, and for all she knew he could have met Corypheus millennia ago. Or perhaps this was not the same Corypheus that Fen’Harel had mentioned at all, although something in her doubted that.

“You alright there, Alyn? You’re starting to look a little pale.”

She broke out of her thoughts and met Varric’s gaze.

“I’m great,” she replied before she gave him a smile she hoped look reassuring, since he did not seem at all convinced by her response. “I need to go take care of something.”

She grabbed her staff, was up on her feet and pushed through the crowds before her companions could protest, and once she was outside and felt the cold air burn in her lungs, she broke out into a run towards the Chantry. She needed answers, and she needed them now.

When she rounded the corner of the cabin lying opposite to Solas’, she nearly crashed into him. She slipped when she tried to avoid the collision, and braced herself for the fall. His hands were on her waist, stopping her in her movements, and he helped her steady herself on her feet, a look of surprise and confusion on his face. Then he noticed the slight panic in hers.

“Is something wrong? What has happened?” he asked, concern marring his voice while his eyes searched hers for answers.

 _Do not falter_ , she thought before she removed his hands from her waist and grabbed his arm.

“We need to talk, _now,”_ she said, trying to keep her voice as calm as possible, before she all but dragged him to his cabin.

She opened the door and released his arm, waited for him to enter before shutting the door behind him and placing herself in front of it. _Do not falter_ , she repeated to herself while she pushed down her panic and anxiety. _Do not let your feelings for Solas cloud you_. _This is the Dread Wolf, not Solas_. Taking a deep breath, she put her Keeper face on before she met his gaze. He was still in his travel gear, but he had removed his pack from his shoulders and placed his staff against a wall, and now he was looking at her with worry shining in his eyes. She wondered if it was worry for her or for himself. Surely he must have figured out that she knew; surely he was suspecting something.

“Who is Corypheus?” she asked quietly, this time feeling strangely calm when she once again saw the quick tension in his jaw at the mention of the name.

His eyes darkened slightly while he stared at her. He was still trying to read her, and she remained unwavering, never letting her gaze break away from his.

“I believe I have already answered that question,” he replied.

“I am asking you again,” she grit out.

He had one more chance to tell her, one more chance to be honest with her. _Why? What are you expecting? That his feelings for you are real and that he will trust you enough to reveal everything? Foolish, foolish girl_. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“As I mentioned before, I have never heard of that-“

“Stop lying to me!” she shouted so loudly it seemed to startle them both. _So much for staying calm_. She began to pace in front of the door while she felt her mask crack, shattering the stone-faced façade. “I am sick of the lies and the doubts. I trusted you, I-” Her voice cracked, and she stopped and took another deep breath.

 _What happened to your strength_? _What happened to being able to keep your emotions in check?_ She used to be so good at hiding her true emotions and keep herself calm and collected even when her feelings were in turmoil. Her Keeper had complimented her on the ability, stating that it would be a valuable asset for her when she took over the role as Keeper herself. Now none of it remained, and all of it was because she had fallen in love with the one man she shouldn’t have fallen in love with. They had not even done anything in this time, had not confessed any feelings beyond friendship, and yet here she was, letting her emotions get the best of her. _Pathetic._

Focusing her anger on the person who deserved it, she stopped in her tracks and turned to glare at him.

“You know who Corypheus is, _Dread Wolf_ ,” she spat out while pointing a finger at him, and for the first time since she had met him, she saw shock clearly written on his face. “You will sit down, you will tell me who he is and how you know him, and then you will tell me what the orb is and what you’re planning to do with it!”

He remained standing, but it seemed as if whatever masks he had worn had fallen away completely. In its wake she saw pain, shame, regret.

“How did you find out?” he asked.

 _“You_ told me in Redcliffe! Congratulations, Fen’Harel, your betrayals finally reached a full circle. You betrayed yourself.”

He flinched at her words, as if she had slapped him, and she had to stop herself from being affected by the wounded look in his eyes. She could not, would not, allow herself to care. Tears burned in her eyes, but she ignored them while she kept her gaze steady on him. The silence between seemed to stretch on for minutes. Then, finally, he took a deep breath and spoke.

“It was not supposed to happen like this.”

“Who is Corypheus?” she repeated, not interested in hearing excuses.

He let out a resigned sigh.

“He is the leader of the Venatori, the one calling himself the Elder One.”

That meant that it couldn’t be the ancient Magister that Varric had told her about. As far as she knew the Elder One was still alive, and Corypheus was not. She supposed it was a small comfort, although at the moment she was grasping at anything that sounded comforting.

“How do you know him?” she asked numbly, fearing what his answer would be.

There was another brief pause between them as it seemed as if he was having some internal arguments with himself.

_Now you know how I’ve felt all week._

“The artefact he used to open the Breach is mine,” he finally replied in a voice filled with regret.

It felt like a knife had been stabbed into her chest and a strangled noise of pain escaped her lips. She backed into the door, unable to contain the anger and revulsion that surfaced when she glared at him.

“It was not supposed to happen like this,” he repeated.

“Tell me then, _Fen’Harel_ , how _was_ it supposed to happen? Why were you so insistent that we close the Breach if you were working with the man who opened it?”

“I am not working with him,” he stated firmly.

“Then _why_ did you give him the means to open it?” she snapped.

Tears rolled down her cheeks and she turned away. She was trembling, though whether it was from the anger or from the pain in her chest, she could not say. She pressed her forehead against the door and closer her eyes while she tried to contain the sobs escaping her lips. This was not the man she had gotten to know, this was not the man she had found herself falling in love with. Solas truly was a lie, and her people’s stories of the Dread Wolf, the Great Betrayer, were true.

_He saved your life._

_No, he saved the mark._

She froze.

“Alyn, I-”

“Shut up.”

The memory of their first meeting flashed before her eyes.

 _“Whatever the magic that opened the Breach in the sky, also placed that mark upon your hand,”_ he had said, and she opened her eyes, looked down at the mark in question before she grew cold.

_No, no, no, no._

Bells suddenly rang in the distance. She snapped out of her thoughts and frowned in confusion before she wiped her tears away and opened the door. The celebrations outside had taken an abrupt stop; there was no music coming from the camp fires, no laughter or cheering. Instead she heard the bells continuously ringing, along with shouts of commands and panicked screams. Over that was the haunting echo of a large force marching in the mountains.

A soldier ran past her and she stopped him.

“What’s happening?”

He looked bewildered for a moment before recognition dawned on him.

“We’re under attack, Your Worship!” he shouted before he turned and continued his run towards the main gate.  

She did not bother to look back at the Dread Wolf before she left his cabin and followed the soldier.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maraas-Lok is qunlat and means drink (or "to drink"). It's also a kind of strong qunari alcohol.
> 
> According to the World of Thedas, the Legacy DLC happens somewhere between 9.31 - 9.37 Dragon and I wanted to give Corypheus a few years to frollic in Thedas before Solas met him.


	4. Mistakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a pain to write. It nearly got deleted several times and eventually I had to cut a lot of it down. I'm still not happy with it, but right now I'm pretty much just tired of looking at it.
> 
> Even though I don't respond to all of the comments, I want you to know how much I love reading them and thank you all for your kind words (same goes for the kudos and the bookmarks <3)

Solas should not be here. The makeshift camp deep in the Frostback Mountains was nearly filled to the brim with survivors from the Elder One’s attack on Haven. Many of them were badly injured from the attack, or chilled to the bone from snowstorms that had plagued the mountains for hours. Most of them would not make it through the night. Solas did what he could for them while he continued to cast glances over to where Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine were stood on the other side of the camp, gauging their reactions to see if any news had arrived. At the same time he was burdened with regrets upon regrets piling up in his thoughts.

He should have returned to Haven as soon as he had noticed that Alyn had remained behind to distract the Elder Ones and his Red Templars. She had done it to give Haven’s survivors time to escape, and when Solas had discovered that she was not with the survivors, and had been informed of her plans by Cullen, it had already been far too late. Now he regretted not returning, even if he knew that she would have pushed him away.

His mind went over their last conversation for what felt like the hundredth time in the few short hours that had passed since it had taken place. Once again he admonished himself for not noticing the signs. Especially since he, in hindsight, could see that they had been right in front of him, clear as day; the abrupt end to her nightly visits to his cabin, her insomnia, the mention of Corypheus. He should have seen it coming, but instead he had been blinded by his worry for her, had assumed that stress had been the cause of her insomnia, which in turn had been the cause for her behaviour. Her lie about finding Corypheus’ name in a journal in the future had made perfect sense to him at the time; the Elder One had commanded that future, after all. Now he knew that _he_ had been the reason for her stress and insomnia.  

Hearing his real name on her lips had been a shock, yet what had shocked him even further was finding out that it had been his future self who had decided to reveal his true identity to her. That piece of information still gave him pause. What had changed him, a year from now in a dark future that would make him risk everything he had planned? Why had he decided to involve Alyn when he knew the misguided stories of his actions that her people claimed were true historical accounts? Alyn had been eager to learn and listen to the knowledge he had to share, yet he had not been surprised to see that even a Dalish as open-minded as her had fallen back to the prejudice of her people once she had learned of his true identity. Revealing himself to her had been a mistake, and not knowing the reasons for why his future self had risked everything only served to add to his current worries and frustrations.

He shook his head in exasperation, quietly admonishing both his present and his future self, while he worked to heal the injuries of a soldier. He popped back her dislocated shoulder, ignoring her screams, before he once again looked in the direction of the advisors, and then time itself seems to still.

Cassandra, Varric, and Dorian had returned, and all of them looked bloody, frozen and exhausted as they marched over to the advisors. Solas saw no sign of Alyn, and a small knot formed in his stomach while he stared at their newly arrived companions. He saw Cassandra’s lips move, speaking words that he could not hear, but the worried scowl in her face already spoke volumes. Varric, who never seemed to be far away from a smile and a jest, now looked withdrawn and resigned; shoulder slumped while he looked away from the others, as if he did not want to listen to the Seeker’s words. In the short time since Dorian had joined the Inquisition, Solas had never seen him look so grim. His arms were crossed over his chest, his brow were furrowed, and after having listened to Cassandra for a few seconds he stormed off.

Solas remained completely still when he saw Cullen’s shoulders sink, saw the raw expression of sorrow on Josephine’s face, and the barely hidden anger in Leliana’s features. The news did not have to reach his ears for him to know what had been said. Alyn Lavellan was dead.

He snapped his gaze away from them, refocused his attention on the soldier has was treating while the knot in his stomach grew. Alyn had been a symbol of hope to these people, having risen up as their saviour when they had needed one the most; it was only natural that he felt a sense of sorrow over her death. It was what he kept telling himself when he moved to treat the next injured soldier, and the next, and the next, until his hands began to tremble, his chest hurt, and his throat tightened. Eventually the camp felt far too small for him, and he stood up on shaky legs and fled to the only place where he could be himself.

He found an unoccupied tent and lay down in it, ignoring the chill in the ground while he shut his eyes. Shutting out the sounds around him, he focused on his breathing, and eventually he fell asleep.

He was trembling when he crossed over the Veil, and he shook his head to shake it off. He had not thought that Alyn’s death would affect him so strongly, and he blinked a couple of times in an attempt to wash away the remains of the waking world from his dreaming form. Once he had managed to calm down enough, he looked around, and was surprised to find Wisdom standing in front of him, her calm eyes curious and observing.

“You should not be here, lethallin,” he warned his oldest friend.

The Breach had been closed but small rifts were still scattered about, and he did not want to lose Wisdom to one of them.  

“Corypheus tried to take the anchor from her,” Wisdom informed him calmly while she ignored his warning, her voice echoing in the Fade around them. “He did not succeed. It seems the Magister did not realise that the mark was permanently tied to her.”

Her words made him sit down. He had known that his mark had been tied to Alyn from the moment he had sat beside her dying form in Haven months earlier, pushing the magic back into the anchor to keep it from expanding while he had studied it. Although he had never been certain, he had feared that the mark had tied her to him on a subconscious level, and he had feared that he would be able to control her through it, just like Mythal controlled the servants who drank from her well. He never wanted to have that kind of power over someone, and knew that he should have stayed away from her. He only hoped that her spirit was at peace.

“Did he kill her?” he whispered.

“No.”

It was a small comfort, but he held on to it, glad that Alyn had at least been able to choose how she went down, even if her death had been his fault. Another one lost due to his mistakes. He never should have let that blighted madman take his orb. 

He suddenly heard a calling across the Fade and his head snapped up, staring in the direction it was coming from. Slowly he rose to his feet.  

“She found out who you are, Solas,” Wisdom stated in wonder while she looked at him.

“She found out what I did.”

“What was her reaction?”

“Anger, disgust, pain,” he replied hollowly as he recalled their final conversation, remembering the anger in Alyn’s eyes, and the way she had spat out his name as if it was a curse. “It matters little now.”

Ignoring his inner turmoil, he used his will to conjure a staff before he manifested the Fade around them to look like the snowy mountains he had left behind in the waking world. He began to walk past empty tents and snowy footpaths.

“She is important to you,” Wisdom murmured, her steps falling in with his.

He shook his head.

“She was Dalish. It is not unlikely to believe that she saw me as nothing more than a monster. Whatever my feelings for her were, it changes nothing.”

“Is that what you believe, or what you want to believe?” Wisdom asked.

He ignored her question, ignored the memories of Alyn while he kept on walking, following the call of the ruins that were once his. They wandered north, over mountains, crossing paths and climbing over mountain tops that would be impossible to access in the waking world. The Fade allowed them to move in a much faster pace; time did not exist here, and the weight of the waking world was only an insignificant shadow in the realm of dreams. The call of Tarasy’lan Te’las grew stronger. Even in his crafted illusion he could see the ripples in the Fade emitting from the ground while it slowly merged with the skies, turning them darker. The Fade knew that it was here that the Veil had been created, and its age poured through memories and illusions alike.

In another world, this was where the rebellion had truly began; where he had rallied the People to fight back against the madness which had plagued Elvhenan, and against their kin who had been corrupted by it. It had been the fight for a new world, where the People were free from the shackles of slavery. Thousands of years later, he had awoken to see that the world he had changed had ended up being worse than the one he had left behind.

He still remembered the day of his awakening clearly; still recalled the feeling of drowning as air had entered his lungs, and the weight of the real world that had pressed down on his weakened body. He had panicked, had collapsed as soon as he had taken those first unsteady steps deep in the ruins that had once been his home. It had taken him weeks just to get used to daylight again, another few weeks to get used to the fact that he could no longer shape reality by using his will. Magic was no longer as natural as breathing; spirits were looked upon as demons, and were just as feared. Worst of all, his people were outcasts, slaves, and servants. Seeing his once proud kin subjugated under human rule, being treated no different than animals, and in some cases being treated worse than animals, had made him so distraught that he had considered returning to his eternal sleep. This world was not his world, and the people calling themselves elves were not _his_ people. The more he had seen of the new world, the more hopelessness he had felt.

Then, years after had awoken, he had met Mythal, and things had changed. He gained the hope that he could fix the mistakes he had made so long ago, and he had returned to the ruins he had awoken in, in the hopes of unlocking his orb. Unfortunately, he had been too weak to unlock it by using his magic, and he had refused to resort to blood magic. The Fade and his friends there had been all that he had left in this foreign world, and he had not wanted to risk his connection to it.

Corypheus had entered the ruins of his home several weeks later, searching for valuable artefacts, and once Solas had discovered who and what he was, his plan had been set. It had been easy to follow the ancient Magister unnoticed, easier still to place the orb in a location where it would be easy to find, but not look out of place. He expected the power of unlocking the orb to kill the Magister; no mortal had ever been able to survive exposure to that kind of magical power. By the time he had realised the gravity of his mistake, it had been far too late.

His orb remained in the hands of a blight corrupted madman seeking to become a god, and the only living mortal in this world that he had felt himself grow close to was dead. Would Alyn have understood his desperation? Would she have understood his plans to restore what once was? He shook his head at his own thoughts before his gaze fell on the place where Tarasy’lan Te’las had been. Beyond the Veil it was nothing more than ruins buried beneath more ruins; a foundation beneath foundations where a new fortress now stood. Whispers in the Fade told him that it had been constructed several centuries earlier, and its builders had named it Skyhold. Time had worn the fortress down, but it remained an impressive structure and Solas decided to mark the location on Cullen’s map once he awoke. Skyhold could become a refuge for the remnants of the Inquisition, though he would not be joining them. His path led to Corypheus, and he would do everything in his power to get his orb back.

His brow creased slightly when he thought he heard his name echo above them, and he turned to look at Wisdom. The spirit had observed him with a smile on her lips, as if she knew something he did not. Worry gripped him suddenly as he reminded himself of how fragile she truly was in this conflict.

“You should not remain in this area, lethallin,” he urged her. “Corypheus still has the orb. I do not want to lose you to whatever he has planned.”

The voice calling his name was growing louder, slowly drowning out the call of Tarasy’lan Te’las. He looked up in confusion while he tried to make out the voice.

“Atisha, you worry too much,” Wisdom replied. “Do not let the weight of this world overwhelm you, falon. Is that not what you told her? It would do you well to follow your own advice and allow yourself some happiness. She changes everything, Solas.”

He looked back at Wisdom in surprise, but she had already disappeared, leaving nothing in her wake but traces of her being. Her words gripped him with confusion and he lingered on them, remaining where he was while the call of his name echoed around him. It soon became too loud to ignore, and the Fade crashed down upon him until he saw nothing but the roof of the tent he had escaped to, and Cassandra hunching over him. He blinked at her dazedly while traces of sleep slowly left his eyes, and even though the Seeker seemed relieved that he had finally awoken, the tension in her features was unmistakeable.

“We’ve found the Herald,” she said and he immediately felt his heart freeze. “She needs your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Atisha = peace


	5. Ma'eth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize for the delay in updates. I've recently returned to work after having 3 weeks off, and have had a lot of catching up to do and a lot less time left for writing. From now on it does seem like I will be updating every weekend. 
> 
> A special thanks to /u/karini on reddit for reading through this chapter for me.

Heavy summer rain had fallen during the night, and now a light fog dimmed the forest they were in. The rain seemed to have awakened the nature around them and smells of wet bark, grass and earth filled Alyn’s nostrils as she ran; the muddy forest ground making soft groaning sounds underneath her feet while she moved quickly past trees, rocks and bushes. The clan had moved past a small clearing where white poppies grew, and Terath had brought her with him to help gather some of them while the rest of the clan kept moving. Well, _he_ had plucked most of the flowers they needed while Alyn had run around the clearing, singing one of the old songs Mamae had taught her the previous evening. It was a song of sorrow and happiness, of a lone hunter who had become a hero by rescuing a group of elves from the shackles of slavery before he had led them to rebel against their cruel masters.  _A song from the Dales_ , Mamae had told her before she had hummed the tune in Alyn’s ears, the melody following her when she had fallen asleep.

Terath had laughed and sung along with her before he had stopped her from running around, stuck some of the poppies in her braid and handed her a score of the rest.

“Give these to your mother for me, da’len,” he had said before giving her a soft pat on the head and she had eagerly obeyed.

After having run for a while she finally saw the clan through the fog and skirted past the slow moving aravels and the herd of halla with ease; ignoring the surprised shouts and soft sighs coming from her kin when she pushed past them. She ran past Keeper Gendal, who sighed wearily at her, and finally saw her mother.

Mamae was scouting ahead of the rest of the clan, her bow in her hands and her sword sheathed at her back while she walked through the fog with swift but quiet steps. She had a serious look on her face, as she always did when she was hunting or scouting, listening to things far away, but as soon as Alyn called out to her she turned around and smiled. She hefted her bow over her shoulder and stopped walking while she waited for Alyn to reach her.

“Look at you, da’halla,” Mamae said before her gloved fingers skirted over the flowers in Alyn’s hair. “You look like a Dalish princess,” she murmured and Alyn beamed up at her at the compliment. “Are those for me?”

Alyn nodded before she gave her mother the poppies. Most were still there, and if she did not say anything Mamae would not notice that some of the flowers had fallen down to the ground during her run. Terath would probably see the flowers in the mud on his way back to them, but Alyn knew that he would not say anything either.

“Ma serannas.” Mamae took the handmade bouquet from Alyn’s hands before she divided it and gave one half back to Alyn. She looked back to the clan and made a small motioning sign to the Keeper – who nodded in response - before she turned to Alyn and held out her free hand. “Come with me, da’halla.”

Alyn accepted her hand and followed as they both broke away from the clan and walked further into the forests. She sang the song Mamae had taught her while they walked through the fog, and when she had finished singing it for the fifth time she realised that she could no longer hear the call of the halla or the rest of their clan behind her. The forest was eerily quiet, but Alyn was not afraid. Mamae had often gone away on these tasks when their clan migrated to new areas, but this was the first time Alyn had been allowed to come with her, and Alyn wanted to show Mamae that she was brave.

 _“She is only six. Are you sure it’s wise to bring her with you, vhenan?”_ She had heard Terath ask her mother the previous evening when they had thought she was asleep.

 _“She is old enough to learn,”_ Mamae had replied, and Alyn had felt proud and excited at her words. The clan still called her da’len, but now she was finally old enough to start learning of the old ways, even if she was still too young to receive her vallaslin.

Mamae wore the vallaslin of Mythal on her face, emerald green lines branching out on her forehead and cheekbones, the same colour as her eyes, and Alyn thought the marks made her look even more beautiful. Terath carried the vallaslin of Elgar’nan. They were dark and scary on his face and Alyn did not think they suited him because he was always so kind. She had never told him that though, because she was afraid that it would make him sad. When she was old enough she knew that she wanted to receive Mythal’s vallaslin, like her mother. Mamae had told her that Mythal was the goddess of justice, motherhood and protection and those were nice things.

“We’re almost there now, Alyn,” Mamae whispered before she squeezed her hand gently, and her words made Alyn look around excitedly while she tried to see where _there_ was.

They reached another small clearing, and through the fog she could see a statue. It looked like it was made of stone, and it was larger than any statue she had ever seen, even larger than an aravel. It did not look like one of the statues of the Creators that they had in their camp, and when the fog cleared even further Alyn could see that it was a statue of a giant wolf. There was a small altar at its base and they stopped in front of it, forcing Alyn to crane her neck to be able to see the wolf’s face. Mamae hunched down on her knees and placed the white poppies on the altar.

“ _Atisha, harellan_. May you never catch our scent,” she said before she began to say more words in elvhen that Alyn could not understand.

She kept staring up at the statue, feeling confused and sad, and then feeling confused over her sadness. Today had been a happy day and there was nothing that had saddened her.

“Hahren Iola has told you the stories of the Dread Wolf, da’halla,” Mamae whispered to her and Alyn nodded while she kept looking up at the statue. The clan’s storyteller had told many stories of the Dread Wolf and Alyn knew that it was his fault that the Creators did not answer their prayers anymore. He had tricked them, and now they were locked away in the heavens. It was why the elves no longer had Arlathan or Elvhenan. 

“We place offerings to him to make sure that he never turns his gaze on us. The shemlen hunt us, but the Dread Wolf is the greatest threat to the People,” Mamae continued before she let go of Alyn's hand and urged her towards the altar with a small pat on the back. “I must leave you here, Alyn. You have been marked by him, and put a curse on us all.”

Mamae’s words made her gasp and Alyn turned her gaze away from the statue to look at her, but she was already gone. Alyn was alone with the Dread Wolf and fear and panic gripped her. Tears immediately filled her eyes as her gaze darted around in the foggy forest, searching for her mother. She tried to run in the direction they had come from but it was as if she was tied to the Dread Wolf’s statue and her legs would not carry her beyond the clearing.

“Mamae? Mamae! _Mamae!_ ” She screamed but heard nothing in response except for her own small voice echoing back at her, and then she stumbled and fell down in the mud.

The poppies she had held in her hand fell down in front of her, but they were not poppies anymore. They were peonies – _shame_ – and she gasped and backed away from them before she ran her hands over her hair to remove the ones Terath had placed there.

“Please don’t leave me here. Please, Mamae!” she sobbed when she finally realised that she had truly been abandoned. “I haven’t been marked by the wolf. I’ve been good! _Mamae!_

She screamed out when burning pain struck her left hand, suddenly and violently, and she stared in horror when her palm was slashed open and green flames rose from the scar, covering the skin of her hand before it rose over her wrist.

“I am here for the Anchor. The process of removing it begins now.” The voice, dark and menacing, came from where the statue was, or where it _had_ been as a tall and terrifying man now stood there.

One side of his face had melted away and large red shards grew from his head. There was fire burning in his eyes when he glared at her and his scarred lips were pulled back into a snarl. His hands looked like sharp claws and he carried a glowing orb in one of them. Intricate carvings covered its surface, and the glow was the same shade of green as the flames that were now travelling up her small arm. Fear gripped her and she sobbed before she tried to run away, but she was stuck. Mamae had left her and she was stuck and now the angry monster was going to hurt her. The pain in her hand burned and burned until it made her scream and in desperation she curled up on the ground, closed her eyes and covered her ears. If she could not hear or see anything then it was not real. _It isn’t real, it isn’t real, it isn’t real._

_Ma’eth, Alyn!_

The voice was both close and distant, a whisper in her ears at the same time as it echoed around her, and it sounded both foreign and familiar. The pain in her hand vanished, and after remaining still for a long time, refusing to budge from her curled up position or remove her hands from her ears, she suddenly heard laughter echo around her. It was a bubbling, carefree laughter that seemed to shift the wet ground beneath her, and when she opened her eyes she saw that she was no longer in the clearing. She was taller, older, drunk.

 

Theren Darthal’s laughter seemed to bring life to the dark forests around them while they ran in circles around the trees. A bottle of brandy was in his hand, stolen from his Keeper’s aravel after they had suffered through the fourth day of Arlathvhen.

“Do you think we’ll argue as the Elders do when we become Keepers?” he asked in a voice that was mired with laughter and tasted of spirits. “Creators, days wasted arguing over minor details when we could have discussed new discoveries.”

They were both warm and giddy from the alcohol, and doing their worst at trying to be quiet so that they would not draw attention to themselves from the large camp of gathered clans in the distance. The Elders’ arguing still continued in the evenings, and loud voices and echoed shouts could be heard coming from the camp, along with music, and the endless calls from the halla herds.

In truth, neither she nor Theren should be drunk. They were Firsts, and Firsts were supposed to be serious and pretentious, like Neria of clan Ralaferin. Neither of them liked her very much, even though both of them saw much of their own sombre seriousness in the other elven First; the same wish to learn more of their forgotten history and lore, to one day become good Keepers who would protect their clans from the fate of dwindling into lost shadows that no one would mourn. It was why they had both decided to drink that night; to forget about their worries for just one evening.

Theren suddenly stopped in his tracks, and seconds later Alyn crashed into him. They toppled over in the ground, limbs tangled together, and the bottle of brandy fell down next to them, its content sipping out on the dry grass. They looked at each other, burst into snorted giggles, and shortly afterwards they cared for nothing else but the touch of soft lips and bare skin. She straddled him and he moved up to meet her, his hands resting on her hips before he kissed her hungrily. She closed her eyes when she felt his lips travel over the corners of her mouth, her cheekbones, her brows, before he began tracing the vallaslin honouring Ghilan’nain on her forehead with soft kisses. She held him around the shoulders tightly when he moved on to her ear, his tongue tracing the shell of it before he sucked on the tip, making her shudder and moan. His panting chuckle in her ear sent a shiver running across her body, resting at the pool of heat that had gathered in the pit of her stomach. She opened her eyes, pushed him down to the ground before her lips met his. He groaned in her mouth when she rocked her hips against him, rubbing against his hardness that pressed between her legs, and she deepened the kiss in response before she let her fingers move underneath his tunic.

Finally she was forced to pull up for air and she let her gaze automatically search the area around them to make sure that no patrolling hunters had discovered them. She was just about to move back down for another kiss, when her eyes caught sight of fur and she tensed up. It was hidden in the dark, next to one of the trees a few feet away from them; its fur black as charcoal and six blood red eyes glaring at her in the night. Having sensed her tension and the change in her mood, Theren craned his head back as he followed her gaze. She saw him tilt his head slightly when he noticed the Dread Wolf, and then his amber eyes looked up at her in disgust.

“He’s here for you. The Dread Wolf has marked you,” he sneered before he pushed her away from him.

She landed on her back in the ground, horror filling her at his words as she watched him rise to his feet, before she turned her gaze to the unmoving wolf.

“No,” she whispered. “That’s not true.”

She had barely spoken the words when her left hand was once again gripped by sharp, burning pain and a mark ripped open her palm. She stared at it in shock, gasping when pain throbbed through her hand and wrist in waves.

“You have cursed us all, lethallin. Your vallaslin should be cut from your face to show our people what a true traitor you are.”

She looked up at Theren when his form towered over her, and when she saw the dagger in his hand she quickly rose to her feet and fled. She heard him call out to the hunters, shouting at them to follow her and it made her run faster. She did _not_ want to look back to see if the Dread Wolf was following her. The burning mark on her hand covered the landscape around her in a soft green light as she ran past it; she knew that the hunters would easily be able to locate her position if they saw the glow, and the thought made her keep running, even as her lungs burned and her legs groaned.

She skirted low hanging branches and jumped over tree roots, and rocks, and then she crashed into Solas. He held her in his arms while she gasped for breath, sinking into him slightly as relief washed over her. Solas would help her hide, he was on her side. She pulled back from his arms and managed to catch her breath enough to speak.

“We need to go, Solas. The other clans, _my_ clan...” Her voice cracked and she looked away from him to hide the tears that were brimming in her eyes.

She gasped in pain when she felt him grip the wrist of her marked hand tightly, and when she looked back at him in question she stilled when she saw his eyes stare at her coldly; his gaze void of any empathy or remorse.

“I believe I told you not to trust me, vhenan.”

She could hear her heart pounding in her ears when her question turned into confusion, and then she saw his face flicker, saw his slate blue eyes turn blood red for a brief second before the outline of the Dread Wolf surrounded him like a dark aura. She remembered then; remembered Redcliffe, Fen’Harel, his betrayal, Corypheus, Haven burning, the avalanche. Memories poured through the open wound left from Solas’ betrayal, and she tried to back away from him. Her struggle made his grip around her wrist tighten further, forming bruises on her skin. An orb suddenly appeared in his other hand, the intricate markings on it coming to life when it sensed her mark, and it made the pain in her hand wash over her with renewed focus.

“I am here for the Anchor,” Fen’Harel said coldly before he forced her down on her knees. “The process of removing it begins now.”

“No, please,” she whimpered, but the man standing above her, the man she had called a friend, had fallen in love with, was ignoring her. He showed her that everything had been a lie, a trick, and that she was now paying for the trust she had placed in him.

She could not move. Every muscle in her body grew colder and colder until it felt like she was frozen in ice. She tried to cast a spell, but the Fade did not respond to her call, and when the magic of the orb connected to the magic in her mark she screamed. Every nerve ending of her body was set aflame, every muscle and limb burned from within and the pain made her tremble violently.

_Ma’eth, Alyn!_

She could see nothing beyond hot, white pain and heard nothing other than her own sobbing screams ringing in her ears. Her fight or flight instincts had kicked in without her noticing, and despite Fen’Harel’s hard grip on her wrist, and the unbearable pain aching through her, she was still trying to fight against it, clutching on to the hand gripping her wrist while she tried to release its hold on her.

_Ma’eth, Alyn. Ma’eth!_

The pain eventually made her choke and she struggled to breathe, felt her lungs burn as they cried out for air. She was dying. She was at Fen’Harel’s mercy and he was killing her.  
No, this was not real. It couldn’t be real. _It isn’t real, it isn’t real, wake up, wake up, wake up!_  
Her vision grew dark, her body went limp, and then everything was silent.

 

_Wake up, please..._

She gasped, felt her body tremble as she tried to fill her lungs with as much air as possible in one go. Panic overtook her and she tried to move away from wherever she was to find safety. Her body did not respond to her mind; she was too drained and weak to even lift her head, and all she could do was let raspy, broken sobs escape her lips. Suddenly she felt a hand on her arm and in her panic she gripped it tightly, held on to it like a lifeline as soothing whispers filled her ears, speaking words she struggled to hear while she tried to calm down her erratic breathing.

She attempted to open her eyes, fought hard against the heavy weight of her eyelids, and winced when streams of light filled her vision. She groaned out at the sudden pain, but it was quickly ebbed out when she felt the familiar tingle of soothing spirit magic on her skin.

_Spirit magic._

Her eyes flew open and she blinked through the brightness until her vision cleared enough for her to see her surroundings. She was in a large tent, empty aside from the makeshift stretcher she had been placed on, and the only other person in there with her was Solas. _Fen’Harel_. She felt her heart beat faster and faster when she looked at the man who had mercilessly killed her in her nightmare. His face was etched in worry as he looked down at her before he placed a magic warmed hand on her forehead.

She realised that it was _his_ hand she had been holding on to, and that she was currently gripping it so tightly that she was certain she had cut off the blood circulation to it. She saw no signs of discomfort on his face however, and he had made no efforts to free his hand from her tight grasp. Instead he kept looking at her with worry while he continued to use his magic to warm her cold skin.

She stared at him quietly as she felt the bitter taste of the nightmare, Haven, Corypheus, the orb and the mark, _his_ lies in the back of her throat. Yet when she was finally able to discern the one word he kept whispering to her over and over again, all she could feel was confusion.

“Ma’eth.”

_You are safe._

“No, I’m not,” she whispered hoarsely, before she let go of his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here I am trying to bring some flower symbolism into everything. According to what I found one of the things white poppies can represent is "peace" while one of the things peonies can represent is "shame". 
> 
> Elvish:
> 
> Ma'eth - You are safe  
> Ma serannas - My thanks (thank you)  
> Da'halla - Little halla
> 
> Let me know if I've missed anything or if something is incorrect. Once again, thanks for your feedback and kudos/bookmarking love <3


	6. Revelations Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Know how I wrote that I would probably update every weekend? Yeah, disregard that. 
> 
> A huge thanks to the lovely Karini for beta reading, discussing chapter ideas and being an all around lovely person <3 She also made this lovely piece of art of Alyn http://karininini.tumblr.com/image/112478699806
> 
> Would also like to send some love over to the ladies in the Solasmancers chat for not kicking me after having listened to my ranting, bitching and frustration over writing this chapter hahaha. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, commenting, kudosing and bookmarking :)

The Veil was weaker here than it had been at the camp. Solas could feel the familiar prickle on his skin while he walked, and the sounds from the camp were muted echoes behind him, drowned out by the sound of crushed snow beneath his feet. He could feel the Fade pressing against the area, weighing heavy on the weakened barrier that separated it from the waking world. It was time – not battle or death – that was causing the Veil to fade away at a very slow pace, and he looked around sharply, searching for the warning beacon that he knew would have been placed there shortly after the Veil’s creation. He was the one who had ordered the beacons to be placed across Elvhenan after all, knowing that there would be locations where age would be the first thing to thin out the Veil. Summoning a wisp to light the area around him, he soon found what he was looking for. The small, black beacon was a stark contrast to the white snow it rose from, and with a small flick of his hand the torch burned brightly with Veilfire. Green flames flickered and danced in the air while it stretched and grew; reaching out as far as it could in an attempt to touch the weak spots of the Veil around it. He stared at the flames in silence while he prepared himself for what was to come.

He knew that Alyn would follow him here, knew that she would not want to talk about the events that had happened earlier in the evening. The humans had sung for her, prayed to her, knelt before her. It had been ages beyond counting since he had seen humans bend knee to an elf so easily – so _willingly ­–_ but he knew that it had mattered little to her; she had never wanted their worship in the first place, and she had been too preoccupied with glaring daggers at him to pay the slightest bit of attention to them. She wanted answers. He would not presume to know what kind of questions she would ask – he had already done the mistake of thinking he knew what went on in her mind once – but he prepared himself the best he could, knowing that he would need to lie. For a moment he wondered if she would be focused enough to know the difference between truth and lies, seeing as she was still greatly weakened from her ordeal, and then he frowned at his own thoughts.  

It had only been a few hours since he had worked himself to the point of near-exhaustion to bring her back from the brink of death. He had been terrified that they had found her too late, that she was already lost to them, and that his powers were too weak to stop it. His emotions had nearly overwhelmed him – the intensity of them shocking him – and it had taken him hours afterwards to be able to shake them off, to bury them with the memories that had already lingered with him through the ages. He had refused to think of them, had refused to consider why they had been there in the first place, and eventually he had blamed it on lack of sleep. Reflecting on them was not important, not when he needed to remain focused on other matters. He did not need a distraction, and despite what Alyn knew of him, he also knew that Wisdom was wrong. She changed nothing.

The sound of her footsteps behind him broke him out of his thoughts. He calmed himself, clasped his hands behind his back, and straightened his shoulder before he turned to look at her. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that faced him.

Alyn came charging towards him with the speed of a swift arrow, her face contorted, nostrils flaring, and eyes nearly as dark as charcoal as an all-consuming fire seemed to burn within them. He had expected anger and hate, but the pure, unfiltered rage that seemed to sustain her was something he had never seen in her before. It shocked him. The shock remained when she shoved him back as soon as she reached him.

“What have you done to me, you bastard?” she shouted while continuing to push him back until he regained his composure enough to grab her hands to stop her.

She struggled to jerk her hands away from his grip, but she was still too weak from the ordeal she had survived. Her skin was pale and feverish, and her breathing was heavy and unsteady, as if the walk over had put too much strain on her body.

“You need to calm yourself,” he urged her coolly before he loosened his grip of her hands.

“Don’t tell me to be calm, harellan!” she snapped while she jerked her hands away from him.

Old, wounded pride surged up, a bitter reminder of how misguided and blind her people truly were. He watched her while irritation welled up inside him, a condescending retort ready on his tongue, and then he forced it back, told himself that he should not allow her words to affect him, no matter how painful they were. He moulded his face into a calm mask before he once again clasped his hands behind his back and straightened his shoulders. Alyn had taken a step away from him, anger still contorting her face, her hands clenching and unclenching into fists while she glared at him.

“What is all of this? Were you having fun tricking me into trusting you? Into believing that you actually cared? Will you laugh at me after you kill me?” she spat.

“No!” His voice came out harsher than expected. “Is that truly the kind of monster you believe me to be?”

Silence met him. For each second that passed, it grew more and more painful, and he was not certain what he had expected when he had asked her the question. A real answer would have been preferable to the burning glare and tense expression that faced him, revealing more than words ever could.

“Dalish lore remains accurate as always,” he bit out coolly.

“Because you’re truly the most biased source when it comes to my people’s knowledge on the Dread Wolf,” she retorted heatedly.

All thoughts of remaining calm and composed disappeared, and he let out a short, bitter laugh before he threw his hands up in exasperation.

“Indeed, how foolish of me to even think to question the historically accurate tales of the Dalish,” he mocked. “Tell me, do I still giggle madly and hug myself in glee in remote corners of the earth after I lock my kin away, or is that small detail something your Elders still argue about during the Arlathvhen?”

Alyn’s eyes widened at his question, and she had grown significantly paler, and it ground his irritation to an abrupt halt. He sighed inwardly while calming down. He knew that he was better than this. He had heard the Dalish stories of the Dread Wolf – had even experienced their violent reaction to his true identity first-hand. He had learned to ignore their ridiculous tales regarding his actions, had learned to not let their misconstrued opinions about him affect him; yet for some reason, all of those teachings disappeared as soon as he faced the same opinions and prejudice from Alyn. It was a confusing and frustrating weakness which needed to be removed.

For a moment they stared at each other in silence, and then he saw the dark fire return to her eyes.

“This mark is yours.”

“The anchor is connected to the orb,” he corrected and received a quiet glare in response.

“This mark is yours,” she repeated through gritted teeth, and he sighed.

“Yes.”

“Well then. Your _friend_ tried to rip it from my hand back at Haven. I’m assuming that my death is the only thing that will release it. So please tell me, _harellan,_ why I shouldn’t expect you to stab me in the back.”

Solas looked at her quietly, wondering if she would believe anything he answered.

“The anchor is not why I joined the Inquisition,” he replied, and he meant it; he only hoped that his words would get through to her.

That the anchor had not killed her was something which would never cease to fascinate him. As fascinating and confusing as it had been, he had known that it had been permanent from the moment he had first laid eyes on it, and he remained focused on retrieving his orb.

“Think what you will,” he continued, “but I did not lie when I told I joined the Inquisition to offer my help in any way I could. The Breach was a mistake which should never have happened.”

He remembered the panic he had felt when the Breach had torn open the sky. The shockwave of the explosion had rushed through the tavern he had taken up rest in, shattering every window in the building and nearly knocking the breath out of him. Dread had filled him when he had stumbled out of the building only to see the Fade when he had looked up at the sky. The Breach was never meant to have happened. He had watched helplessly while spirits had been ripped through the tear in the sky, the shock of being pulled from the Fade against their will quickly twisting them into demons. It had been a mistake. That was not how it was supposed to have happened. It had all been a terrible, horrible mistake.

“If the Breach was a mistake, then why did you give the orb to Corypheus?” she asked.

“Corypheus was a means to an end.”

He had not questioned why Corypheus was at the Conclave, or what he was planning on doing there. He had heard of it, of course, the great hope for an end to the war between mages and templars was a subject that seemed to have been on everyone’s lips back then. The topic had been so popular that even someone who had spent much of their time away from civilisation – like he had – had heard of the Divine’s peace meeting. He had followed Corypheus, but had never questioned. Instead he had been content to wait, knowing that he would hear the call of his power when the orb was unlocked. There were many things he should have questioned.

“A means to an end?” Alyn repeated slowly, the knot in her brow tightened.

“I needed him to unlock the orb. I suspect the blast that destroyed the Conclave was more accidental than anything. What I cannot understand is how he managed to survive such an explosion.”

“Unbelievable,” she whispered.

She shook her head in disbelief and seemed lost in her own thoughts, muttering something that sounded like _Varric,_ before fixing her gaze on him with renewed anger.

“What are you planning to do with the orb?”

It was the question he had been waiting for from the moment she had arrived. The one question he had no desire to answer. Even if she was not currently blinded by her emotions – something he knew he could not blame her for – he would not be able to tell her of his plans. She would never be able to understand what their people had lost, would never be able to fully understand that he was going to make things better. A small part of him wanted to tell her everything, wanted to make her see. That part was quickly buried. The path he would walk on once his orb was returned to him was a lonely and unforgiving one. Nothing else mattered.

“It matters little what my plans were. All that matters is stopping Corypheus before he uses it to cause more damage.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, clearly unhappy with his reply. He did not let himself waver.

“Your future self seemed very insistent that I make you talk.”

Yes, his future self; the reason he was in this situation in the first place. His admission to Alyn was still a frustrating revelation that made him wish that he had asked to know more of what had happened in that dark future. He could not understand why he had risked everything he had planned, but it angered him; especially when the only one who held those answers would never exist.

“Whatever I said and did in that future was based on nothing but ill-thought-out decisions and regrettable actions. It was a mistake that was surely born out of nothing more than simple desperation.”

For the first time since she had sought him out, the anger vanished from her features. The fire behind her eyes was extinguished, and nothing remained but pain. His words had hurt her, and he could not understand why. While his deception had been regrettable, it had also been necessary, and had she not found out the truth in Redcliffe, he would never have revealed himself to her. Pain still lingered in her eyes while she tried to mask her features and he saw her swallow hard before she spoke.

“Well then, good to know.”

“As I said, Corypheus must be stopped. He seeks to become a god, and he sees you as his greatest rival. You already thwarted his plans at the Conclave and at Redcliffe. Once he finds out that you survived Haven, he will not leave you be until you are dead.”

She surprised him by laughing. There was no emotion behind it, only hollow bitterness.

“I could just point him in your direction and give him a real god to fight with,” she remarked with a voice as bitter as her laugh.

He ignored her jibe before he continued.

“If the Inquisition is to stop Corypheus, it will need a place where they can rebuild, grow. The events at Haven have changed everything, and the Inquisition will follow you wherever you lead them. There lies an abandoned fortress far to the north called Skyhold. It is a remote location deep in the mountains that offers far more protection should Corypheus decide to attack again.

She stared at him with no small amount of incredulity.

“Where did you find this place?”

“I rediscovered its location in the Fade. Skyhold is built upon ancient elven ruins.”

“What kind of elven ruins?”

He paused for a moment, knowing that she would most likely not want to go there if she knew that the ruins had once been his.

“It used to be a refuge for travellers who passed through these mountains.”

It was not entirely a lie.

“You’re really expecting me to lead the Inquisition, defeat Corypheus, and just hand over the orb that created the Breach over to you?”

“The matter of the orb is something we can discuss when the time comes,” he lied, knowing that there would be no discussions when he finally had his focus in his hands. “Think what you may of me, Alyn, but you know as well as I that you need my help as much as I need yours.”

He saw her think it through, saw her fact contort and change as she seemed to struggle with her inner thoughts, and then her shoulders sunk in resignation when she realised that she had no other choice. He knew that her sense of duty was stronger than her anger and pain.

“You stay away from me, Dread Wolf,” she snapped before she turned and left.

He looked after her while he forced himself to remain calm, even when the emotions he had held back during the evening threatened to break loose from their constraints. She had not gotten far when he saw her stop, shoulders tensing and hands clenching into fists. Then she looked over her shoulder and uttered four words that hit him like a rock.

“You called me vhenan.”


	7. Inquisitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish:
> 
> Da'halla - Little halla  
>   
> Transaltion from the World of Thedas, from the song Sulevin (Endure):  
> Lath sulevin - Be certain in need  
> Lath aravel ena - And the path will emerge  
> arla ven tu vir mahvir - To a home tomorrow  
> melana ’nehn - And time will again  
> enasal sa lethallin - Be the joy it once was  
>   
> Translation from in-game:  
> Mala suledin nadas - Now you must endure
> 
> As always thanks to Karini for being an awesome beta!

_They say that Fen’Harel did not care for the People. Our gods saw him as a brother, and they trusted him…_

_“The matter of the orb is something we can discuss when the time comes.”_

_And he left, and the great beast came into the village that night and killed the warriors, and then the women, and the elders…_

_“It matters little what my plans were. All that matters is stopping Corypheus before he uses it to do more damage.”_

_And Fen’Harel sealed them away so they could never again walk among the People…_

_“Think what you may of me, Alyn, but you know as well as I that you need my help as much as I need yours.”_

_They trusted Fen’Harel, and they were all of them betrayed…_

_“Is that truly the kind of monster you believe me to be?”_

_The villagers asked Fen’Harel how he would save them…_

_“Do not trust him, vhenan.”_

_And he said to them,_

_“When did I say that I would save you?”_

“Skyhold truly is a blessing in our darkest hour. It is fortunate that we found it when we did.”

Cassandra’s voice broke Alyn out of her reverie, immediately putting an abrupt halt to her thoughts. She slowly turned her gaze to the warrior, feeling almost detached as her words sunk in.  _Skyhold was a blessing._ Unsurprising words coming from the Seeker, considering it seemed to be a sentiment shared with the rest of the Inquisition. After a long and gruesome journey through cold and unforgiving mountains, the old fortress  _had_ seemed like the light at the end of a very dark tunnel.

The Inquisition had taken a collective sigh of relief before they had immediately begun work on repairing Skyhold. The mood had changed; while the hours passed, it seemed as if everyone was beginning to relax more as they accepted the safety of Skyhold’s thick and sturdy walls, walls that offered more protection than Haven had ever been able to. Alyn, however, could see nothing beyond the strings that were attached to the fortress. A price would be paid, eventually. The Lord of Tricksters did not help mortals without consequences after all, and she quietly disagreed with Cassandra’s statement.

“It is,” she responded, placing her gloved hands on the stony railing while she looked down at the bustling crowd in the courtyard below.

They had reached the fortress a scant week earlier, and almost as soon as they had arrived Iron Bull had offered to return his mercenary company to Haven to search for supplies and more survivors. Signs of the Chargers’ work was already beginning to appear. More and more refugees and recruits arrived through the high gates of Skyhold each day, seeking sanctuary from the war, and offering to help in their fight to stop Corypheus in any way they could.

None of them knew that a greater threat than Corypheus was housed within these walls. Had Alyn been the person she had been before Redcliffe and Haven, she would have been burdened down with guilt when she saw the look of relief on their faces. Now she was too detached to allow herself to sink down that dark hole. She shut out the fear, anger, pain, and doubt, and beneath it all – buried among the emotions and memories she never looked back on – she placed the feelings she held for Solas.

 _“You called me vhenan,”_ she had told him, and now she looked back on her words and cringed inwardly. They had been wasted on a man who had not deserved to hear them, and saying them would not have turned the lie real. Solas was a man who had never existed, would never come to exist, and now she focused only on garnering the strength she needed so that she could do the duty she had been trained for; to stand against Fen’Harel. She knew that he had plans, knew that it involved the orb. After having seen the damage Corypheus had done while wielding its power, after having twisted and turned every word Fen’Harel had told her while she had thought him to be Solas, she knew that whatever he had planned would more than likely do as much, if not more, damage to the world.

“You should know,” Cassandra started, once again interrupting her thoughts. “I have had many discussions with Leliana, Cullen and Josephine these past few days. We intend to make you our Inquisitor.” Alyn immediately snapped her gaze back to Cassandra, furrowing her brow when she saw the calm and determination that grazed the Seeker’s features. Her eyes, sharp and focused, never broke away from hers. “Word of Skyhold has spread; it will no doubt have gained the attention of the Elder One. We have the walls and numbers to put up a fight here, but this threat is far beyond the war we anticipated. But we now know what allowed you to stand against Corypheus, what drew you to him.”

_“The anchor is not why I joined the Inquisition.”_

The mark in question flared up, burning in the palm of her hand, but she remained quiet while she ignored the stinging pain, letting her fingers curl into a fist in an attempt to keep the pulsing of magic at bay. The anchor had grown wilder and more painful since Corypheus had tried to remove it. It was a familiar pain, the same kind she had felt on the fateful day when she had woken up in a dark and damp prison cell at Haven.

Back then the mark had slowly been killing her, and the worry that the same thing was happening now hovered over her like a shadow, but she pushed it away, kept the anchor hidden from others. She could live with the pain, and she hoped that it was nothing more than a simple side-effect from Corypheus’ meddling. She had no desire to involve anyone else in the matter, especially not the man who would know what might be causing the anchor’s instability; particularly not when she had avoided him for the past week. She would not show weakness in front of the Dread Wolf.

“Corypheus came for the anchor, and now it’s useless to him so he wants me dead. That’s all there is to it, Cassandra,” she replied quietly before she turned her gaze away from the Seeker, letting her eyes move over the mountain tops that towered over the walls around Skyhold.

In the past she would have protested more about the decision that Cassandra and the advisors had made behind her back. Now she found that she could not see the point in it. They had already used her as a rallying cry to create the Inquisition, building upon the false tales that she had been sent to them by their beloved prophet to bolster their numbers. The revelation that the anchor was magic, and not a gift she had received from Andraste, would not keep them from continuing to use her as a symbol. She could not leave the Inquisition so long as Corypheus, and Fen’Harel, remained a threat to the people she cared about back home, and she would not be allowed to remain on the sidelines while she stayed.

“The anchor has power, but it’s not why you’re still standing here. Your decisions closed the Breach, your determination has led us this far. The Inquisition needs a leader if we are to survive through this war, and you are that leader.”

 _A pawn,_ her mind whispered, and irritation soared through her. She held it back. There was no point in debating, even when her pride screamed at her to push back and her instincts told her to run away.

“Fine.”

Her mind began to slowly trace back the steps of the path she had walked on so far, until she saw a forest clearing in front of her, felt the biting night winds on her skin that had caused her to shiver. Worn hands held hers firmly, dark eyes lingered on her, while prayers spoken with a voice that never faltered filled her ears.

_“May Mythal protect you on your journey, may Dirthamen keep you shrouded, may Ghilan’nain give you strength, and may the Dread Wolf never catch your scent.”_

_“Ma serannas.”_

_“Remember, da’len, you are only there to observe. This meeting could be the change our people have waited for. Dareth Shiral.”_

_“Dareth Shiral, Keeper.”_

“I… have to admit,” Cassandra began hesitantly, “I expected more protests from you. I know that you were not open to the idea of staying when the Inquisition first began.”

Cassandra’s words sounded hollow in her ears, distant even though the warrior stood next to her. Alyn let out a quiet huff of air while she traced the mountains with her gaze, her attention still half-buried in memories that seemed to have taken place in a different time, a different life, when her worries were trivial and she was not facing the threat of two ancient beings from two different directions.

“Things change,” she replied shortly.

“I see.”

_“Remain strong, da’halla. I pray your task will not keep you from us for long.”_

In the shadow of darkness the black vallaslin of Elgar’nan had made Terath’s pale eyes stand out like stars in the night sky. They had borne into her, intense and unwavering, filled with sorrow and steel that had lingered over decades.

 _“Lath sulevin,”_ she had told him, and he had sighed.

“Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?” Alyn asked, impatience creeping into her voice as she wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Thankfully the Seeker got the hint.

“I… no. Josephine thought it would best to hold a ceremony to officially announce you as our Inquisitor. It will take place tomorrow. The Inquisition will follow wherever you lead them, Herald.”

The words rang in her ears long after Cassandra left her. She knew that the Seeker had meant the words as a comfort, but they sounded empty. The Inquisition would only follow her so long as she did not make the wrong choice or she would most likely end up as Shartan. The Dalish did not forget the fate of the elven hero who had fought to free the People from Tevinter slavery, even when the Chantry had done everything they could to erase him from their history.

 _“Lath aravel ena, arla ven tu vir mahvir, melana’nehn, enasal sa lethallin,”_ Terath had responded the night she had left her clan.  _“Mala suledin nadas, Alyn. Be strong.”_

She would have to write a letter back home, tell Keeper Deshanna to move the clan. They remained camped in the forests surrounding Wycome only because they awaited her return; she would not have them risk their safety for the sake of her. She needed to make sure that they were safe from anyone who would use them against her.

An unexpected pop next to her made her jump, and in the corner of her eye she saw a figure. When she turned her head in its direction, she found herself meeting the intense gaze of ice blue eyes peering out from the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat. Her rapidly beating heart slowed down when recognition settled in, and she let out a soft sigh of relief.

“Hello, Cole.”

The human man looked slightly distressed as he stared at her, his shoulders sunken and hands wringing together.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She gave him a strained smile that she hoped looked reassuring enough.

“You didn’t. I was just surprised.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Cole.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

This time she had to bite the inside of her lip to stop herself from smiling. She was still getting used to Cole’s presence in the Inquisition and was still uncertain of how to behave around him.

She knew that more people would have died in the attack at Haven if he had not managed to outrun Corypheus’ forces to warn them. Although his appearance at the time had been strange and suspect, it had not been until shortly after the Inquisition had arrived at Skyhold – when things had calmed down enough that his unusual behaviour stood out – that his true nature had been revealed.

Fen’Harel had called him a spirit, Vivienne and Cassandra had called him a demon, and Cole had said that he only wanted to help. She had watched as he helped wounded soldiers, had listened to him while he had recited their painful thoughts as if he had been reading them from a note. He could hear pain, but he could not hear hers. The anchor made her too bright to hear, he had said, and for the first time since the mark had appeared on her hand she had been grateful to have it. Alyn had allowed him to stay and help, and that had been the last she had seen of him, until now. For a moment she worried, wondered if the protection the anchor had given her had disappeared and if he could now hear her thoughts. Her worry dissipated when he began to speak.

“She doesn’t believe she can be the leader they require. She doesn’t think they would follow her as they would follow you. She told the others that you would be better even though she knew that you didn’t want it. Why did she do that?”

She sighed.

“I don’t know, Cole.” She licked her lips before she looked away from the spirit. She knew why Cassandra had done what she did, but saying it would mean accepting it, and her instincts were stubbornly telling her not to give in. She swallowed her pride. “Sometimes we have to do what is needed, even if it isn’t what we want.”

She would endure this, just as her people had endured through the ages. She would lead the Inquisition, and she would stop Corypheus. She would remain strong for her people, she would be their Keeper in everything but name, and she would stand against the Dread Wolf when the time came.

 _“Vir bor’assan,_ ” Cole said.

She looked back at him in surprise.

“Where did you hear that, Cole?”

“It was written in the letter.”

“What letter?”

“The one from your clan. There was pain on the page.”

He had barely finished the words when she broke into a run to the main building to find Leliana.

 

 

Word of the attack at Haven had reached her clan. Leliana had sent an agent to inform them that Alyn was safe, and the letter her clan had penned in return had been sent off with a raven. She spent the rest of the afternoon and evening hidden away in one of the rundown rooms at Skyhold, reading the letter over and over again until she could recite the words written down from memory. It had not been written by Keeper Deshanna, but by Terath, and his handwriting was hurried and jagged. The words, however, conveyed comfort, support, and guidance. They knew that she would not return to them as soon as they had hoped.  

_It saddens us that you remain away from us, Alyn, but we will continue to pray to the Creators so that they may protect you. Vir bor’assan, as the sapling bends, so must you. Know that we are proud of you._

Like a child longing for home she drew the parchment up to her nose and closed her eyes, imagining that she could inhale the scent of burning incense. She allowed her mind to take her back to the clan, to evenings spent in front of the fire, listening to the stories of Hahren Iola, to afternoons spent in Keeper Deshanna’s aravel, discussing the history and lore of their people. She thought of days spent in the forests, bantering with Falon and Revas as they affectionately made jokes about her poor skill with handling a bow and she smiled. She knew that she would see them again once this was over. For now, she would endure.

 

When the Inquisition officially declared her as the Inquisitor the next day, she declared herself an ambassador for the elves. It was a subtle statement, but she would not allow this human-founded Andrastian Inquisition to forget who she was or who she fought for. When she entered the great hall with her advisors in tow, heading towards the war room, she noticed Fen’Harel standing by the entrance to the rotunda. She met his gaze for only a moment before she looked away, pretending that she had not noticed him. In that short second, however, she had seen the tiniest of smiles on his lips, and steel-blue eyes looked at her with what she had only been able to discern as pride. She was not sure what to make of it.

The evening brought celebrations. The newly repaired and opened tavern was crowded, providing respite to patrons who wanted to forget about the past and drink to newfound hope. Despite the cheerful mood, Alyn could not stop lingering on the events of the day, and she quickly found that she lacked the energy to remain in the large crowd. Without a word she escaped upstairs. She found Cole standing in a dark corner on the top floor, his distant eyes looking at nothing while he spoke quietly to himself; murmuring the pain he sensed in the patrons. She watched him for a moment before deciding that she did not want to disturb him, and turned in the opposite direction to reach the door that would take her out to the ramparts.

“Voice ringing with fullness from both worlds, guiding me to the shining places. He calls himself Pride.”

She froze. His words were soft-spoken, but they rang in her ears, and she gripped the wooden railing tightly as she turned back to look at the spirit made flesh. His gaze was on her, focused and present; ice blue eyes that seemed to be able to look beyond flesh caused her skin to prickle. He could hear the pain of others, but it had never occurred to her that the spirit would be able to hear Fen’Harel. Did the Dread Wolf know pain? She recalled the story he had told her before the attack at Haven; the story of Fen’Harel’s rebellion. She remembered the emotions she had felt while listening to his elven, the barely concealed pain in his voice when he had told her what it had been about. After everything that had happened up until now, she had firmly dismissed it as another one of his lies.

She approached Cole with guarded steps, and took a look around to make sure that they were alone before she spoke.

“Do you know who he really is?”

“Yes,” he answered quickly, and then his eyes focused on a point beyond her, once again fogging over as they grew distant. “Old pain, shadows forgotten from dreams too real. This side is slow and heavy, but here is what can change.”

The loud and cheerful conversation and music from the tavern downstairs somehow made the silence left by Cole’s words heavier. Alyn looked at him numbly while she tried to digest what he was saying.

“Does it not bother you that he’s lying to everyone?”

Cole blinked at her.

“He lied?”

“He lied about the orb and about who he is,” she snapped before wincing at the sharpness of her tone.

“Oh.” Another blink. “He wears a different mask, but he is still Pride. Solas, bright and sad, observes and accepts, spirit self, seeing the soul, Solas, but somehow sorrows. He wants to help.”

Doubt crept in, fighting against the instinctual pride that had been with her since she had been old enough to learn the history of her people. Whispers that told her that she might be wrong poured through the cracks in the walls that insisted that she was right.  
_The villagers asked Fen’Harel how he would save them, and he said to them, ‘When did I say that I would save you?’_

“Who does he want to help, Cole?”

“The People.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize for having taken so long to update this. The past month has been very tiring and draining and I haven't found the energy to work on this fic until now. I'm definitely hoping that the next update will be quicker.


	8. Stories

“There you are. A word if I may?”

Alyn blinked at the ambassador in confusion, surprised by her sudden appearance, before she took note of her surroundings. She was in the great hall. She had been so deep in her own thoughts that she could not recall leaving the tavern. How long had she been wandering around for?

“Are you alright, Inquisitor?”

She looked back at Josephine.

“Yes. Did you need something?”

Josephine nodded and motioned for Alyn to follow her. She obliged, but it did not take long for the walls to disappear in a blur when she sunk back into her own thoughts.

_“He wants to help.”_

Cole’s words had planted a seed of doubt within her, unshakeable and ever-growing. Once, Alyn had been confident in what she had known. Her place in the world had been certain, as had her duties. Despite everything her people had lost, and everything they had struggled to regain, she had fully believed in what little history and lore of the elvhen that remained.   
Now only a sliver of that confidence remained, and even that was close to vanishing, no matter how tightly she held on to it. She doubted, and if there was anything she hated, it was doubt. Stories of Fen’Harel’s great misdeeds echoed in her thoughts, battling each other to get her attention.

 _The Creators had once walked among the People, and now they were trapped in the heavens, betrayed by Fen’Harel._  
He wants to help the People.   
Fen’Harel never cared for the People. 

Josephine opened the door to her office, and a wall of heat slammed into Alyn, snapping her back to reality. A fire raged in the fireplace, the flames flickering as cold air from the great hall swept in. Josephine shivered and closed the door behind Alyn before she went to sit by her desk.

 _The orb is Fen’Harel’s. He allowed Corypheus to take it from him._  
He’s helping the Inquisition to stop him.   
Because he wants his orb back!

“We’ve sent messages to Empress Celene regarding the threat to her life. Unfortunately, the political situation in the empire is dangerously unstable. It’s impossible to know if she’s received them.”

After returning from Redcliffe, Alyn had held a long meeting with her advisors, informing them of everything Corypheus had done in the future. The assassination of the Orlesian Empress was what Josephine and Leliana had deemed to be the threat that required the swiftest action.

_We wouldn’t have known about Corypheus’ plans to kill Celene if not for Fen’Harel. He also told you not to trust him. He is using the Inquisition._

Why did he need their help? Why was he pretending to be a hedge mage apostate? Corypheus was not a god, but Fen’Harel was. Was he not capable of stopping Corypheus himself?

“Okay.”

He had sacrificed himself at Redcliffe so that she and Dorian could return to the present. Once the demons had breached the door to the throne room, she had watched as a terror demon had thrown Fen’Harel’s body to the ground.

“I’ve made some inquiries into the Imperial Court. Celene is planning to hold peace talks under the auspices of a Grand Masquerade. Every power in Orlais will be there. It’s the perfect place for an assassin to hide.”

 _Can a god die?_  
The red lyrium had poisoned him just as it had poisoned Blackwall, and Grand Enchanter Fiona. She remembered the dark circles around his red lyrium corrupted, foggy eyes; remembered the red aura that emitted from his body, as if the lyrium was growing inside him. After having seen the Grand Enchanter succumb to the lyrium, it had been with dread that Alyn had realised that Solas would meet the same fate. He _had_ been dying.

“Great.”

Can _a god die?_  
“I am dying, vhenan, but no matter. If I can help you return, to prevent any of this from happening, then my life is yours.”  
He’s the Dread Wolf. A trickster!

“Inquisitor, are you listening to me?”

“Yes,” she replied immediately, making sure that she met the ambassador’s gaze.

Josephine looked unconvinced, but resumed talking nonetheless.

“I am working on arranging an invitation to the ball. Unfortunately we do not have enough power or reach to be of interest to the Orlesian Nobility.”

Fen’Harel was the reason for them being in this situation in the first place. If Corypheus had not gotten the orb from him, the Divine would still be alive, the peace meeting would have gone ahead as planned, and she would have returned to her clan long ago.

Or she would have been dead.

She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled.  

“Are they not concerned about Corypheus?”

Fen’Harel had saved her life, _twice._ If not for him the magic in the anchor would have killed her.   
_His fault!_

“The Empress is in the middle of a civil war with her cousin. As far as the Imperial Court is concerned, that takes priority. The Venatori have yet to make themselves known in Orlais, and despite its ties to the Chantry, Haven was a Ferelden village. They do not believe that Orlais is threatened by Corypheus.”

 _Corypheus’ fault._ Even without the orb, he would most likely still have found another way to reach his goals.   
But hundreds of people had died at Haven because of Fen’Harel’s mistake.

“If that’s the case, can’t we simply ignore them and focus on Corypheus himself?”

Josephine looked at her with the mask of infinite patience. No doubt a trait she had picked up when she was working as the Antivan ambassador in Orlais.

“Orlais holds Tevinter at bay, Inquisitor. All of Thedas could be lost if the Empire falls to Corypheus. We must be vigilant, to avert disaster.”

“And I’m guessing you already have a plan on how to handle this.”

 _He wants to help the People-_  
He hates the People-  
His lies-  
His fault-  
“He wears a different mask, but he is still Pride. Solas, bright and sad, observes and accepts, spirit self, seeing the soul, Solas, but somehow sorrows. He wants to help.”

“We must increase our reach and standing in Orlais if our word will carry power with the Imperial Court. Leliana’s scouts report finding Imperial forces in need of aid in the Exalted Plains. Should we assist them, they may spread word of the Inquisition’s work to the court. It would increase our chances of receiving an invitation to the peace talks.”

“ _May_ spread?”

Josephine’s smile was almost conspiratorial.

“Do not worry, Inquisitor. Leliana and I will ensure that stories of your assistance reaches Val Royaux and Halamshiral.”

 _Stories._ Her thoughts came to an abrupt halt.

“What?”

“It is imperative that our reputation within the Empire grows. We cannot do so without participating in the Game. The Nobility _will_ hear of our assistance in the Exalted Plains. Whether or not everything they head will be true, is another matter entirely. I suggest you head to the region as soon as possible, should someone from the courts seek to verify our presence there. At your discretion, Leliana will send word ahead so that her men can set up camp and scout the area.”

_Stories.  
“Dalish lore remains accurate as always.”_

She inhaled sharply.

“We’ll head out tomorrow,” she said, her voice surprisingly hoarse. “Thank you, Josephine.”

She returned to the great hall. The cool air made her skin prickle, and she took a deep, shaky breath in an attempt to calm down her racing mind. It did not work.

_Stories._ _For generations the known history and lore had been passed down in stories, and it was said that the ancient elves passed down their history in a similar fashion. She had always believed that the core of their stories were true, but now she could not shake off the dreaded feeling that it was nothing more than embellished tales; patch-worked, failed attempts at regaining a small semblance of everything they had lost._

_“They are children fumbling in the dark,”_ _Fen’Harel had told her when speaking of her people, back when she had still thought him to be Solas. At the time it had left her seething. Her pride had been wounded, but she had known that she would regret not listening to what he had to share. She had told him that she would listen, but could promise no more, and for the first time since the attack at Haven she remembered her journal and realised that it had been lost, among so many other things._ _So much for that,_ _she thought and sighed in resignation._

_The stories Fen’Harel had told her had been additions to what she had known, not amendments; until the story of Fen’Harel’s rebellion. The emotions she had felt from the story still remained, the braids she had created for them still floating in her thoughts. Of all the stories he could have chosen to tell her, why had he chosen that one? Had he known, back then, that she knew who he was? Had he wanted to give her a story where he played a different role? Had he deliberately recited the story in elven so that she would be blind to the details of the story, beyond what she had felt? More questions arose, more doubt, the sliver of confidence slowly but steadily weakening._

_Do you really know who Fen’Harel is?_

_Her eyes fell on the door leading to the rotunda, and rested on the light that broke through the gap at the bottom. She moved towards it slowly. When she reached the door, her hand hovered over the handle, hesitating for the smallest of seconds before she grabbed it._

_She had avoided the rotunda from the moment Fen’Harel had made it his, and had pointedly avoided even looking down at it whenever she visited the library or the rookery. When she now entered it, she was met with flashes of colour. Her eyes flickered over the walls, taking in colours and motifs that told their stories to the world. The_ _Inquisition’s_ _stories she realised, her eyes moving over the black and white wolves that howled beneath the sword of the Inquisition. She moved her gaze to the mural next to it, and froze._

_Two castles, two backgrounds, two timelines; Redcliffe. She walked up to it while taking in every line and edge; every shadow and shape of the art. A solitary white wolf stood perched on a mountain top in the dark future, howling into the sky. Her eyes lingered on it, and she wondered who it howled for; wondered if it was a memory of the man who had revealed the truth._

_“Inquisitor.”_

_She snapped her gaze away from the fresco and found its creator seated on a sofa on the other side, a book in his hand, and unreadable eyes looking at her. Above them the cages in Leliana’s rookery rattled when the ravens flapped their wings, as if startled by the sudden sound of his voice._

_Silence stretched between them, both of them unmoving while they stared at each other. She shouldn’t be there. She had told him to stay away from her, she would do well to keep her end of the bargain. Without a word she walked back to the door, feeling his eyes on her the entire time. Once she reached the door she found herself once again hesitating._

She wanted answers. She was desperate for anything that would remove her doubt. A cacophony of questions and conflicting emotions invaded her thoughts, but the strongest voice of them all was Cole’s.

_“He wants to help.”_

Her resolve broke.

“Who _are_ you?”

His familiar calm mask fell for a brief second, and she saw something akin to surprise. It disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, and he watched her quietly, eyes moving over her face as if searching for something.

“I am not sure I understand the question.”

She moved closer to the sofa and kept her voice quiet when she spoke.

“I can’t make any sense of you. Why do you stay here? Why do you need our help to stop Corypheus when you should be powerful enough to stop him yourself? The Creators saw you as their kin, you are one of them, but when we found you in Redcliffe you were just as affected by the red lyrium as everyone else. You told us you were dying. _Can_ you die? Is that why you’re using us to fight him?” His brow furrowed over eyes that darkened, and she sighed. “Nevermind,” she muttered irritably.

He closed the book he had been reading before placing it down next to him.

“I wonder,” he began as he stood up, “what is it you hope to gain from these questions?”

He walked towards her, hands clasping behind his back, and she found herself mimicking his stance while she watched him.

“Understanding.”

He stopped in front of her, close enough that she had to bring her face up to meet his gaze.

“Truly? Is it understanding, or is it an attempt to confirm that your knowledge of the Dread Wolf is correct? Perhaps you can return to your clan once this is over and congratulate yourself over having treated Fen’Harel with such disdain all these centuries.”

“Do not mock me,” she snapped. “This isn’t about that and you know it.”

A hint of regret passed over his features, but he did not look away from her.

“Is it not enough to know that I will remain and assist in any way I can until Corypheus has been stopped?”

She wanted it to be enough. She wanted to pretend like none of this had happened and go on her way, confident in the knowledge that her people had collected. But pretending would be a disservice, both to herself and to her people.

“No.”

“Some questions are best left unanswered.”

Was he _pleading_ with her? She frowned.

“I can’t close my eyes and pretend,” she said. “I need to understand.”

He looked away. She found it odd how he seemed more guarded with his knowledge now that she knew who he was. She was almost certain that he would have shared the answers with her if she had asked the questions when she had still thought him to be Solas. Had it been a mistake to reveal that she knew of his secret? Perhaps she would have been able to gather more clues, more knowledge, more answers, if he hadn’t known. She sighed.

“Before we closed the Breach you told me the story of your rebellion. Was it true?”

He glanced back at her and hesitated, eyes filling with a deep sorrow. _“Solas but also sorrows.”_

“It was,” he finally said.

“What happened?

He sighed.

“It was a mistake, made by a much younger elf than I,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion. “It was an act born out of desperation. I believed it was the only way to save my people.”

He painted with broad strokes when she wanted details. Still, her mind raced while she tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together. The stories Josephine and Leliana would feed the Orlesian Nobility would still have elements of truth in it; enough to make the fabrication sound more believable. Surely there were some truth to her people’s stories. The story of the Great Betrayal whispered in her thoughts, and she swallowed before she spoke.

“You rebelled against the gods, didn’t you?”

He chuckled bitterly.

“We were never gods, Alyn.”

She was encased in ice, a rush of sudden dizziness attacked her mind, and it took all of her power to remain still. She dug her nails into her hands to stop them from trembling while a cacophony of protests roared in her thoughts, instinctive and protective. It was lies. It had to be. He is Fen’Harel, the liar. The Creators were the gods of her people. It was to them she prayed to every evening to give her strength and courage for the coming days. She knew they could not hear, but there had always been hope that they would one day return to their children, and wreak havoc on those who had oppressed them. Their stories echoed in her mind, their effigies flashed before her eyes; Elgar’nan, Mythal, June, Andruil, Sylaise, Dirthamen, Falon’Din, Ghilan’nain. Who were they if not the Creators?

Fen’Harel was studying her, brow creased in concentration. She realised that he was waiting for her reaction, waiting to be proven right. Her tongue felt heavy and dry, and she tried to think of something to say, anything that would not grant him his satisfaction. When she opened her mouth the only thing she could think of saying burst from her lips.

“I’ve been asked to go to the Exalted Plains. I’m planning to head out tomorrow. I’d like for you to accompany me.”

She did not bother waiting for his answer before she left the rotunda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out this amazing [tarot card](http://girltriesgames.tumblr.com/post/117789790435/for-cipher-alyn-lavellan-from-choices-and) that the lovely girltriesgames created of Alyn <3


	9. Slow Arrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to both Karini and Staleina for editing, feedback and suggestions. Big thanks for the comments, kudos and bookmarks from you readers as well. :)
> 
> Dirth'ena enasalin - Elvish name for the Arcane Warriors

It was the grandest opera to be performed in Arlathan in decades. The costumes had been tailored to perfection, and if the director was to be believed, the best performers had rehearsed day and night for several years. The evening of the grand opening had finally arrived and nearly every noble in Arlathan was there. Their focus was on the stage, their eyes shining brightly in the dark from the magical runes that lit the raised platform. The subject of the play was one they remembered well, but pretended that they had forgotten: the slave rebellion in the southern city of Shivanas. None of the nobles would describe it as anything but a “minor scuffle”; calling it something else would be the same as admitting that their role in society was not as safe as they wanted to believe. A play on how the rebellion had been snuffed beneath the feet of noble heroes was the perfect way to cater to their fragile egos.

Anyone who would cast a glance at one of the balconies would see Solas seated casually on a throne made of ironbark, a look of complete and utter boredom on his face as he seemed to prefer to play with the wisp he had summoned rather than focusing on the performance. In truth, the boredom was a mask, and he had summoned the wisp to distract himself from the irritation that simmered within him. He found the play insulting, pandering to people who did not deserve the attention, while greatly misconstruing the true cause of the rebellion.

On stage, the rebelling slaves were portrayed as ungrateful traitors who turned against their masters for no other reason than the desire for power. In reality, the slaves had rebelled because they had desired their freedom; a simple fact that had managed to escape the minds of the captivated audience as they applauded when the hero of the opera, a Shivanian Noble, appeared on the stage for the first time. Solas sighed when the hero began to sing of the unjustified actions of the rebel slaves, and he pinched the bridge of his nose when the nobles cheered. The beginning of a headache was threatening to break out and he shut his eyes while he wondered if he would be able to leave without anyone noticing. He had never wanted to attend the opera anyway.

Mythal had sent him messages for weeks, sending a stream of servants to ensure that he received them while ignoring his scathing replies. She had chosen the play they would attend, and the fact that she had yet to arrive only served to increase his irritation. She had forced him out of his self-imposed exile by stating that it would be good for society to see him walk among them again. Of course, by society she meant the nobles. The threat from the other Evanuris if he did not fall back in line had burned between her written words. The rebellion at Shivanas had, after all, never really been able to take form had it not been due to his encouragement; a fact few knew about.

In dreams he had approached the slaves, fanning the flames of rebellion in their hearts while giving them advice on how to best fight their masters. He had sought out the leaders of the rebels, feeding them information on how to lead and fight from the shadows. The slaves were not somniari, but he had done everything he could to ingrain his information into their minds so that they were able to make use of it after they had awoken.

They had. The rebellion had seemingly come out of nowhere, and it had lasted for nearly a year. News of the uprising had made nobles around Elvhenan nervous, and any signs of insurgency were quickly snuffed out by their personal Dirth’ena Enasalin. The deaths of their fellow slaves had only added fuel to the fire of the rebellion, but it had not been enough. In the end it had not been noble _heroes_ or the Dirth’ena Enasalin that had stopped the rebellion, but betrayal. The promise for power had made the leaders turn on their people, and there had been no recovery from the blow it had struck. When evening had fallen, the streets of Shivanas had been coloured red with the blood of slaves. Only half a century had passed since, but the memory of it was still clear as day in Solas’ mind.

In the aftermath it had not taken long for his involvement to be discovered by the other Evanuris. Elgar’nan’s wrath had been stayed only by Mythal’s hand, as it always had, and after the meeting had ended Solas had returned to the seat of his temple where he remained in solitude, letting himself stew in his guilt while he admonished himself for his foolishness.

On stage, the main actor had been joined by his fellow performers, all of them playing roles of other Noble men and women who were as heroic and just as the lead. The music that filled the atrium was as overblown and pompous as the entire play had so far been, and Solas could not help but wonder if Mythal had chosen it to teach him some kind of lesson.

The sound of fabric rustling behind him reached his ears through the music and with a flick of his hand the wisp he had played with vanished. He sunk further down in his chair, resting his chin on his hand, and his look of complete boredom remained.

“I was beginning to think you would not make an appearance,” he said casually without turning around. “I believe they are about to begin the slaughter.”

He heard the sound of soft footsteps approaching his seat.

“Excellent. I do love a good slaughter.” The voice did not belong to Mythal.

Solas whipped his head around and saw a hooded man. Shadows covered his face, but it was not enough to hide the markings of Falon’Din that were etched into his features, or his violet eyes that glinted as it reflected the light from the runes. The vallaslin marked him as a slave, but it contrasted heavily with the rest of his appearance. He lacked the hunched down posture that years of hard work and malnourishment would have given him, and instead he seemed almost proud as he stood tall. The robes he wore were clean and whole, and though he was clearly attempting to shroud it, Solas could hear the song of the Fade as it drew to the man like moth to a flame, ready to reshape itself at his command. He may have worn the markings of servitude, but he was no ordinary slave.

Solas eyed the stranger sharply. No doubt, he mused, the man was a high ranking slave who served one of the nobles downstairs and had been sent up to make an offering in exchange for blessings on his noble’s house. Solas turned away from the man, returning to resting his head on his chin while following the play with feigned disinterest. He was in no mood to listen to a noble’s pandered messages.

“Return to whomever sent you and tell them not to bother me again,” he said.

The stranger laughed.

“Oh, you see my vallaslin and think I’ve been sent up to rub your feet? How rich of you, Solas. Don’t worry, I’m here on my own volition.”

Solas looked back at him, taken aback by his nerve. Never before had one of the elvhen mocked him in his presence, certainly not one marked with the bindings of slavery. His surprise quickly turned into suspicion.

“How very kind of you,” he remarked dryly. “I would entertain you, but I am already expecting company. It would do you well to leave.”

The man only smiled, and then he took a seat in the throne next to Solas. It was a crime punishable by death for a slave to sit on a place meant for the Evanuris. Solas had no intention of striking the man down, but the threat itself did not seem to bother the slave as he nonchalantly slumped down in his seat.

“Mythal isn’t coming,” he said while he glanced at the play. “You see, I had to speak with you, and since you’ve been cooped up in your temple for the past five decades feeling sorry for yourself, sending you messages in Mythal’s name seemed the best course of action to get you out of there.”

The realisation that he had been lured out like prey in a trap slowly sunk in. The writing _had_ looked like Mythal’s, and the slaves who had brought him the messages had worn her vallaslin. Even the way the messages had been written sounded like her. By all accounts, the stranger had committed the highest of crimes by impersonating Mythal, but if it bothered him he made no show of it. Solas stared at him in disbelief.

“I cannot decide whether you are brave or foolish.”

The man shrugged and smiled.

“Why not both?”

His smile faltered only when he caught Solas’ stare. _So there is fear there after all,_ he thought, and disbelief gave way to curiosity. Not that he would show it. He looked away from the man and resumed his look of stoic disinterest.

“I wonder what could be so important that you would break the highest laws of Elvhenan to seek me out.”

“I’m glad you asked,” the stranger said enthusiastically. “I recently lost contact with one of my people. At first I thought he had met an unfortunate fate at the hands of his mistress, but I’ve had no response from my other contacts in the same region either.”

“So you are a spy,” Solas remarked.

“Of sorts.”

The answer came as no surprise to him. The underground society among the slaves of Elvhenan was a well-known fact to those who knew where to look. While the nobles loved to believe that they had complete control of their property, the truth was that their slaves often traded and sold goods amongst each other, and the highest commodity were secrets. Nobles and wealthy merchants danced around each other, plotting and backstabbing, while few of them realised that their secrets were being sold and exchanged by their slaves. In larger cities, slaves often formed trading groups, gathering information while selling it to the highest bidder. Solas assumed that the stranger was in charge of one such group, though he could not figure out where he was going with his story.

“I fail to see why this is cause for concern. Slave purges are not uncommon.”

He stated it as cold fact, but the familiar feeling of revulsion at the method used to control the slave population boiled within.

“I am well aware of that,” the stranger replied, and for the first time since his arrival Solas could hear a note of anger in his voice, “but this is not it. At any rate, despite what’s being said, purges are never very effective. I know that my contacts would have managed to stay clear of it had one occurred. When I heard nothing back for several days, I attempted to sneak through the eluvians to travel to the city. Unfortunately, I found them dark.”

 _That_ definitely piqued his curiosity. Few had the authority to close the eluvians, and even then the People had to have the permission from one of the Evanuris to do so. The last time the eluvians had been closed had been at Shivanas. Solas bitterly remembered the moment when June had ordered his priests to shut the mirrors down to prevent slaves from entering or escaping, but even then it had taken months before the decision had been made. It was not a choice made lightly.

“How very interesting,” he said, sounding as if he thought the complete opposite.

“Yes, I thought so too,” the stranger replied happily, no trace of the anger that had been in his voice remaining. “When I made the discovery I decided to travel to the neighbouring city to see if I could travel on foot. Unfortunately, I discovered that the eluvians leading there had also been closed. By all accounts, all eluvians leading to central Revasan are dark.”

Andruil’s lands. Solas’ mind raced while he digested the news. When was the last time he had seen her? Brief memories of the victory ball held after the rebellion at Shivanas came to him, followed by memories of the private meeting hosted by Mythal, where Elgar’nan’s rage had nearly suffocated the room as he had shouted at Solas. The others had all been there, though none of them had spoken. He realised that that had been the last time he had seen any of them. There had been no reason for them to gather since that meeting. Andruil shutting down the eluvians, however, was something which _should_ have caught the attention of Elgar’nan and Mythal. Solas found Andruil vicious and bloodthirsty, giving in to her need of hunting the slaves forced into her service instead of protecting them, yet even she would not be so foolish to isolate her cities from the rest of Elvhenan.

“How long has it been since you made this discovery?”

“A few months.”

His brow furrowed at the answer. If the stranger’s information was to be trusted, it was odd that no word of it had spread. He knew several nobles seated in the audience below who were from families that relied on trading contracts to and from Revasan to maintain their wealth; if their trade had been interrupted, there was no doubt in his mind that they would have complained about it during the mingling before the opera had begun.

“Why go through all this effort to tell me about this?”

Below them the audience cheered and applauded while the hero of the opera duelled one of the leaders of the rebellion. The music accompanying the scene was so dramatic, one would have thought the hero was battling a dragon rather than a slave. The stranger waited for the duel to be over before he answered.

“Because you are the protector of the People, Solas, or am I mistaken?” Solas looked at him and noticed the smile on his lips. “Unlike these nobles,” he said, gesturing down to the audience below, “we slaves remember the true story of the rebellion at Shivanas. We know _who_ it was that encouraged us to fight for our freedom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will make sense later. 
> 
> If things go as planned, I'm hoping to get the next chapter up this weekend!
> 
> Also, I couldn't get the idea of ancient elves going to the opera out of my head.


	10. Dirthavaren

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to StaLeina for helping with ideas and giving feedback throughout, and calypsid for proofing and giving language advice <3
> 
> Warning for violence, blood etc in this chapter.

The air at Dirthavaren was heavy with the smell of death and smoke. Its fields were coloured red with the blood of fallen elves, their lifeless eyes staring blindly at Solas, slowly fogging over as death took its course. Some of them had died still holding on to their weapons in a steadfast grip.  Others were empty-handed, their weapons scattering across the fields, blood-stained, and trampled into the ground. Nearly all of them lay next to the corpses of their canine companions, having spent their last moments shielding, or being shielded, by them.

Their brothers and sisters barely looked down at their fallen kin as they ran past them, charging at the army that fought under the banner of the Chantry. Battle cries fell from their lips – prayers to their gods in the ancient tongue – and with unrelenting force they attacked. Soon the air was heavy with the roar of battle; metal striking metal, cries of pain, and shouts of command.

Flame arrows lit the night, leaving trails of smoke behind them as they soared through the sky before they rained onto the human army. Most soldiers acted quickly, raising their shields to protect themselves from the barrage; others were too slow. The fire caught cloth and fur, and panicked screams drowned out everything else as the fire expanded and grew before it completely engulfed its victims. It was not long before the smell of charred flesh and fur permeated the air, stinging Solas’ throat and nostrils.

It was the last stand of the Dales; the final desperate battle that had taken place after the Chantry-led army had razed Halamshiral. Standing in the middle of the battlefield, Solas watched the memory come to life and unfold around him. He could sense the fear of the elves, their hopelessness and despair, but he also sensed their determination. They were what remained of the Emerald Knights, sworn to protect the borders of the Dales from their enemies. They would not surrender.

Where one elf fell, another took its place in the formation, their snarling, vallaslin-marked faces shining with sweat, grime, and blood. Adrenaline and rage rushed through their veins, fuelling sore and aching muscles, and tired minds after nearly a full day of fighting. Alongside them were the Knight’s Guardians, the wolf companions who fought loyally next to their chosen knights. They attacked when the elves attacked, fangs and claws bared as they fearlessly pounced on their enemies, mercilessly tearing into flesh and bone. They fought bravely, but the battle had been lost before it even begun.

Light flashed in the corner of his eyes, bright and sudden, and Solas turned his head in time to feel the ripples through the Fade as an elf fade-stepped past him. She appeared in front of a surprised Chantry soldier, and within the blink of an eye she sent him flying back into his comrades with a powerful shockwave of raw magic. Another soldier attacked, striking her with his axe before bashing her with his shield. Her barrier shimmered over armour and skin, and she staggered back, momentarily stunned. Regaining her bearings quickly, she blocked his next strikes with her staff before she hooked it under the head of his axe. With a turn the weapon was knocked out of his hand. A look of surprise graced the soldier’s features, quickly replaced with confusion when the elven mage placed the flat of her palm to his chest. A heartbeat later Solas could once again feel the Fade around them twist and ripple. The soldiers armour began to glow brightly orange and his agonized screams filled the air. They quickly turned into pained whimpers as the metal melted and seared into his flesh. It was not long before he had grown completely silent. When the elven mage withdrew her hand from his chest, he collapsed to the ground, a charred corpse of melted flesh, metal, and fur.

She was lighting up the sky, lightning crackling in the night before it struck the Chantry forces on the ground, when the blow came. Around her the memory dwindled; time slowed as small cracks ripped through the air, revealing the dull, green light of the Fade. Reality was being enforced. Solas took a step towards the anomaly, eyes focused on it while he waited. He had witnessed the abilities used first-hand in the waking world, but never before in the realm of dreams, and he watched the event with no small amount of fascination. The cracks grew larger while bright green light tore away at the edges, like fire burning parchment. For the fraction of a heartbeat he could feel an eerie presence pouring through. It skirted close enough to awaken feelings of familiarity, but too far away to be able to place. A heartbeat later and it was gone. The cracks blurred, melting into the memory before it vanished completely, and time resumed its normal speed.

The elven mage fell to the ground on her back, gasping for air while the magical barrier protecting her dissipated in a burst of white light. Solas watched her raise her hand to cast a spell, but nothing came. Her connection to the Fade had been temporarily severed, and the Templar responsible for smiting her was charging at her, the insignia of the Chantry barely legible on his bloodstained shield.

The mage had managed to stand up on shaky legs, still dazed, when the Templar reached her. She managed to block his first few strikes with her staff, but it was ultimately futile. The Templar bashed his shield into her side, knocking her back to the ground. She did not get a chance to recover before he plunged his sword into her chest, twisting it as he sank the blade deeper. She stared up at her attacker, eyes wide in shock and lips parted, but no sound came. Solas thought her dead, and then she coughed. Bubbles of blood foamed her mouth, seeping down her jawline before it dripped down onto the earth. Before death took her he saw her lips move, the name leaving them barely more than a whisper. He turned away.

The presence he had felt through the cracks returned, now close enough that he was able to recognize it. It was concentrated behind him.

“You should not blame yourself for their deaths.”

The voice was both loud and whispering, echoing around him and murmuring in his ears all at once. It dulled out the roar of the battle around them.

“I do not,” he replied calmly.

“You lie poorly, Solas.” He detected a note of amusement in the voice and turned to look at his old friend.

“It is good to see you, lethallin.”

The corners of Wisdom’s lips curled into a faint smile, her glowing green eyes observing him curiously. 

“You have seen this memory before. Why return to it?”

He looked away, watched the muted chaos around them. More bodies lay on the ground, more dead elvhen, young and old, and their empty, milky eyes all stared at him.

“I needed to remember.”

Wisdom entered his field of vision, hands clasped behind her back and brow furrowed.

“You do not forget, falon,” she said. “What enlightenment could you gain from seeing this again?”

Solas sighed before he met her gaze. He had come to this memory to regain his focus, to dissolve the rumble of confusion and doubt in his thoughts. With Wisdom there, he was now forced to face the facts that had remained difficult for him to swallow.

He had spent a year focusing on nothing but his goal, refusing to let anything hinder him. Not even his mistake with Corypheus had taken him away from his path; if anything it had only delayed them. All the lives lost, all the sacrifices his people had made, and his future self had made the decision to throw it all away. _You called me vhenan,_ Alyn had said, and her words had affected him more than he wanted to admit.

At first he had wondered if the words had been true. After all, he would not put it past himself to use her emotions for him as a tool, a weakness to exploit. Then he had thought back to Redcliffe, to the growing dread he had felt when Alexius had cast his spell; to the cold panic that had struck him when he had looked to where Alyn had stood, only to see nothing but a pile of ash. She had only been gone for a few moments, but it had been enough. Enough for him to sink into himself, to feel his chest tighten with pain he had thought himself unable to feel anymore; enough to feel an almost frantic level of fear and anger, to want vengeance.

But she had reappeared. He had forced himself to calm down, gripped his staff so tightly to hide the trembling of his hands, and had quickly buried everything that had transpired in him during the few heartbeats she had been gone. Everything had returned to whatever could be considered normality, or so he had told himself as he had tried to forget the effect her disappearance had had on him.

In another life she had not reappeared. In another life he would have thought her dead, with no body to bury; something he would have continued to believe for a year. In another life he had called her vhenan, and he knew that his future self had meant it.

It remained a difficult truth for him to swallow.

“When we last spoke, you told me she would change everything. Tell me, lethallin, what makes you believe that?”

Wisdom’s eyes narrowed and her brow rose as she searched his face.

“She has already changed everything. Were you not so focused on the past, you would already see it.”

She held out her hand. He looked at it, watched the green smoke that danced and crawled on the skin she had created for herself before his brow furrowed and he looked back at her.

“She may know enough to complicate matters,” he said dismissively, “but she has changed nothing.”

Wisdom’s smile faltered and she cocked her head.

“Is that what you believe or what you want to believe?” Her voice was a ghosting whisper in his ears, echoing in the space between them. “Tell me, how did she come to find out who you are?”

He swallowed and looked away, trying to distract himself by focusing on the battle. He saw an Emerald Knight sneak up behind an Orlesian soldier, jamming a dagger into a weak point of the bulky armour before he kicked the back of the soldier’s knees and forced him down to the ground. A moment later the elf grabbed the soldier’s head and twisted. A crack was heard, dull and distorted as it reached Solas’ ears, and the Orlesian fell to the ground, his neck broken. The elf barely gave himself time to rest before he retrieved his dagger and disappeared back into the shadows.

“Show me, falon.” His gaze shifted back to Wisdom, resting on her face before falling to her still outstretched hand. He hesitated for a moment, then sighed in resignation and placed his hand on hers. The smoke on her skin stretched out over his hand, wanting, seeking, and he looked back into Wisdom’s eyes.

Around them the Fade shifted and moved, transforming and changing until they were both stood against a wall in a cabin. Quietly they watched the confrontation which had taken place between Alyn and him right before Corypheus had attacked Haven. The memory of hearing his old title being spat out from her lips sent a shockwave of emotions through the cabin, blurring lines and edges until nothing but a smudge of colours remained. Their voices, however, remained as loud and clear as ever.

 _“How did you find out?”  
“_ You _told me at Redcliffe! Congratulations, Fen’Harel, your betrayals finally reached a full circle. You betrayed yourself.”_

He inhaled sharply and his grip around Wisdom’s hand tightened. They remained still, listening to the rest of the confrontation until he’d had enough. He focused on Dirthavaren, trying to ignore Alyn’s strangled sobs that echoed around them, and once again the Fade moved to engulf them.

When they were not back in the bloodstained battlefield, and instead felt the chill of winter on their skin, he knew that something was wrong. He was losing control of his memories and dread settled in when their surroundings changed until they found themselves in a cold tent. They watched him as he worked to bring colour back to Alyn’s worryingly pale skin. Although she was unconscious, the pain that came when she regained feeling in her thawed limbs was great enough to make her cry out and struggle against him. He pressed his palm to her chest, kept her still while the magic surged through his other hand to warm her skin.      

 _“Ma’eth, Alyn,_ ” his memory said. _“Ma’eth.”_

He swallowed while he listened to himself repeating the words, trying to calm her even if she could not hear him. She screamed and the scene rippled.

Snow rose up from the ground, quickly breaking into a storm that ripped the tent apart and clouded the image of himself and Alyn. For a moment the snow was all they could see, and then the storm abated as quickly as it had appeared. They ended up in the clearing outside the refugee camp in the Frostback Mountains, the playful song of Veilfire filling their ears. It was temporarily drowned out when he heard Alyn snap at him before she raced past them. Then she stopped, her fists clenching and unclenching, and Solas knew what would come. Of all the memories he could have shown Wisdom, this was not one he wanted to share, even if she was one of his oldest friends. His mind raced as he tried to regain control of the Fade while his stomach twisted into knots.

_“You called me vhenan.”_

Wisdom let out a sound of surprise.

“Solas?”

He ignored her. Vhenan rung in his ears, almost taunting him while it engulfed him like a blanket so warm it felt like it was burning his skin. Anger roiled within him, both at his present and future self. How foolish had his future self been to throw everything away for mere emotions? That had been Felassan’s mistake, and a year from now he had made the same one. It had been reckless, irresponsible, a lacking of judgement which should never have happened.

The air flashed and they were dragged into new memories, new surroundings. They were back in his cabin at Haven, watching Alyn and him sitting next to each other on the floor, the heat of a wood-fire warming them.

“ _The_ Breach _should be their biggest concern, not whether or not I choose to play a part so that their fragile egos can have an easier time accepting that an_ elf _holds the key to closing it. Besides, everyone has a choice.  
“Choices are easy to make; living with the consequences of our decisions is the difficult part.”_

The cabin was ripped apart, shredded wood planks and furniture flying in the air while rounded, fresco-painted walls rose from the ground to form the rotunda at Skyhold. He tensed up, felt the beads of sweat on his brow as he worked frantically to return them to Dirthavaren. The rapid pace at which the Fade had changed and moved around them was dangerous; there was no doubt in his mind that they had already attracted demons. They needed to leave, but they remained stuck. Ravens squawked above them while they watched him and Alyn stood in the middle of the rotunda, mere inches away from each other.

_“You rebelled against the gods, didn’t you?”  
“We were never gods, Alyn.”_

Solas sighed. It had been a foolish thing to say, but the memories of his rebellion had weighed heavy on his mind, and the words had escaped his lips without thought. Careless. 

Alyn paled. She was completely still, but in her eyes he could see the turmoil his words had brought her. She remained silent for a long moment. Then her eyes focused back on him and she blurted out an invitation to the Exalted Plains before she turned and left the room.

“There may have been a gentler way to tell her that her beliefs were false,” Wisdom murmured.

Solas shot her a look before he once again felt the ripple in the Fade as it shifted, already unravelling the scene of his next memory.

“Enough!” he snapped and raised his hand to tear it down.

The walls crashed into the ground, dissipating into tiny wisps, and finally they reappeared on the war-torn grounds of Dirthavaren. He let go of Wisdom’s hand and began to rub the bridge of his nose while he tried to regain a sense of calm. Wisdom’s gaze bore into him, lines of concern creasing her forehead.

“You worry too much, Solas. Always remembering, always wandering, always searching for the past only to mourn it. You are too blinded by dreams long forgotten to see the present. You need to accept that the world has changed.”

He grit his teeth, took a deep breath through his nose while he ignored the smell of death and charred flesh.

“I cannot do that,” he replied wearily.

“There is no one in your way but yourself. Why are you unable to let go?”

“Because I am the protector of the People!” he snapped, throwing his arm out towards the battle. “They followed me to gain their freedom and look at what happened to them. Shall I turn a blind eye while the elvhen remain shadows of what we once were, living in squalor while they distort our history and culture?” he sighed. “It was my mistakes that caused all of this. I cannot sit by and accept that this is what our once beautiful world is.”

Wisdom had not even flinched at his outburst. Her eyes, calm and knowing, observed him.

“They once saw you as their guardian, Solas, but your protection will not be what they need in order to break free from what they are.”

He shook his head. He could not accept that. His actions, actions made by a man who had thought he knew everything, were what had set everything in motion; breaking the People down until nothing but forgotten shadows remained. Drastic and desperate measures had been taken back then, and the world would not be restored to what it had once been unless he fixed his mistakes. 

“It seems,” Wisdom added, “as if the Solas the Inquisitor met at Redcliffe agreed with me.”

He remained quiet, his eyes moving over the battlefield. The night sky had turned to dark shades of blue, slowly brightening as dawn approached. Where the elven army had taken advantage of their superior night vision to deal effective blows to their enemies, the tide of the battle would soon turn. Somewhere in the massive crowd was Lindirane, the Emerald Knight who had led the fight and had rallied the remnants of the elven army to fight back. She would not live to see the sunrise.

“We are not alone.”

He did not have time to digest Wisdom’s words before a loud roar filled the air. The landscape was bathed in a bright green light, and Solas shielded his eyes from it before he scanned the field, trying to locate its source. It did not take him long to find it. Deep into the bulk of the human army, floating in the sky above them, was a Fade Rift. Dread and confusion filled him as his mind leaped to the worst possible conclusion. Had Corypheus managed to find another way to enter the Fade? He looked back at Wisdom.

“You should not remain here, lethallin.”

He set off in a run towards the still pulsating and roaring rift. He did not bother skirting through the chaos of the battlefield. Soldiers flickered and shimmered as he ran through them, unaware of his intrusion and the rift. Beyond the frontline of the human army he saw more dead elves; the first casualties of the battle, trampled on and ignored as the human army had advanced and pushed further in. He took care to avoid their bodies while he ran, even though he knew that they were mere visions. The rift grew brighter and louder as he closed in on it, tendrils of green light crackling in the air around it. When he finally reached it, he searched frantically for its creator, and then he froze in his tracks. 

Standing not too far away from him, right hand wrapped so tightly around the wrist of her left that her knuckles were white, was Alyn. She was staring down at her anchor with wide eyes and furrowed brows, lips pulled back slightly to reveal teeth gritted together. He looked up at the rift. Countless questions emerged, none of the relevant if the woman in front of him was nothing more than a demon that had taken her form. He took a small step forward, his eyes narrowed while he observed her, trying to find anything that would indicate if it was her or not. His mind told him it was not possible; she was not a somniari, and would not be able to travel through memories like he could

Yet when the rift above them disappeared, its loud roar shaking the ground, she looked up, meeting his eyes, and he knew it was truly her. _Impossible._ His gaze flickered between her and the spot where the rift had been, a cacophony of conflicting emotions battling inside him as he thought of the implications of what had happened, of what was still happening.  
The anchor in her hand flashed, causing her to wince, and he stared at it, wondering, dreading. The anchor was a part of her, but it was his magic, his essence, his power. She was not a somniari but, for better or worse, the anchor had made her one.  
_She changes everything._ Wisdom had been right.

Alyn was trembling. Confusion marred her features; wide blue eyes filled with shock and fear moving frantically as she stared at him. Then she looked away, taking in their surroundings as if it was the first time she had noticed it. The corners of her lips sank, and even through the muted roar of the fighting around them he could hear her rapid, shaky breathing.  

“I thought it was real,” she said, her voice hoarse and wavering. “I thought it was real and I panicked. The anchor—“

Her voice died and her jaw tensed up, eyes darkening while they lingered on something in the distance. Following her gaze, he soon discovered a dead halla. Once, it had been the noble steed of an Emerald Knight. Now it lay lifeless on the ground, several arrows lodged into its long neck, and white coat tinted red with blood. Its antlers, once beautifully curved into intricate patterns, were nothing more than stumps. It seemed that not even the heat of battle could stop Orlesians from collecting trophies.

“This is a memory.” It was a statement, but she still looked back at him as if waiting for an answer.

“Yes.”

She turned away, rubbing her marked hand absentmindedly while she walked into the fray of the battle. He followed her quietly. On this side of the battlefield, the humans had the upper hand. There seemed to be nowhere they could turn without seeing Emerald Knights bested in one-to-one combat, or merely getting overwhelmed from the sheer number of foes.

A Templar suddenly fell to the ground in front of her, blood seeping down from his neck where an arrow had struck him. She jerked back with a surprised gasp, taking several hurried steps back to get as far away from him as possible. The Templar rose to his knees, using his shield as support, before he plunged his sword into the back of an unsuspecting Emerald Knight. The elf cried out in shock, his body twisting in pain before collapsing, and a moment later an arrow whizzed through the air before it pierced the Templar’s skull. He toppled over on the ground, arm still resting on his shield. Alyn stared at it, incomprehension and disbelief in her eyes.

“What is this?” Solas heard her whisper.

“The Exalted March. The last stand of the Emerald Knights after the fall of Halamshiral.”

She looked back at him startled, as if she had forgotten his presence.

“What?”

“The Exalted March of the Dales,” he clarified.

“Yes, I figured _that_ out!” she snapped before she placed a hand over her eyes and took a deep breath. “Ir abelas. I didn’t mean to... it’s never felt this _real_ before. I can’t think... They’re afraid, they’re so afraid. Why is this happening?”

Solas approached her carefully until he stood in front of her. He moved to place his hands on her shoulders but paused, his hands lingering above them. She had not noticed him. Her hand still covered her eyes, but her voice had reduced to a barely audible whisper, words coming out in a ramble that were interrupted only by her increasingly shaky breathing. She would be in danger if she did not regain control quickly.

“Inquisitor.”

She did not hear him. He tried again.

“Alyn.”

Still there was no response. Slowly he rested his hands on her shoulders, making sure to keep the touch feather light. It was enough to make her startle and gasp. Her hand dropped from her face, revealing wide, tear-filled eyes that snapped up to look at him.

“You are in control. Focus your will and look beyond their thoughts and emotions.”

Her hands grasped his arms tightly and she stared at him with an almost pained expression on her face. Her breathing was becoming more frantic and panicked, and he pressed her shoulders gently in an attempt to comfort her.

“You are in control,” he repeated. “Focus.”

He saw her try. She closed her mouth and took deep breaths though her nose as she attempted to calm down, but it was not enough. Tears streamed down her eyes and quiet sobs wracked her body while more and more soldiers died around them. It was when he felt another familiar, hostile presence in the memory, heard a scream he had heard countless times in the waking world, that he knew she was in danger. In the distance he saw the grey, raggedly cloaked form of a despair demon, its bare feet forming pools of ice on the ground as it walked in search of Alyn. He acted quickly. He cupped her face and looked into her eyes, and as the first rays of sun reached them from the east, he gave her a comforting smile and whispered:

“Wake up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I keep going back between Fen'Harel and Solas. I believe that Solas would definitely refer to himself as such as Fen'Harel is what he "used to be" and Solas is the name he's taken for himself in his path for redemption.  
> Alyn thinks of him as Fen'Harel, since that is who she sees him as now. 
> 
> I hope it's not too confusing.


End file.
